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WORDSWORTH FOR THE YOUNG 

SELECTIONS 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION FOR PARENTS AND TEACHERS 



BY 



CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 



Illustrations selected and arranged hy the Compiler 



"It is indeed a deep satisfaction to hope and believe that my poetry will be, while it lasts, a help 
to the cause of virtue and truth, especially among: the young." 

Wordsworth — Conversation icith Aubrey de Vere. 

" To teach the young, and gracious of everj- age, to see, to think, to feel, and therefore to be- 
come more actively audseeurely virtuous — this is their office." 

SDSWOBTH — Letter to Lady Beaumont. 




BOSTON 
D LOTHROP COMPANY 

■WASKIXGTON STREET OPPOSITE BROMFIELC 



\ 



T'^ 






Copyright, 1891 

BY 

Cynthia Morgan St. John 



/Z-Z 



<r3 3^ 



TO MY LITTLE SOIST 

EDWARD MORGAN ST. JOHN 

THESE SELECTIONS ARE MOST LOVINGLY DEDICATED, FOR WHILE THE 
GERM OF THOUGHT WHICH LED TO THIS ARRANGEMENT OF 
THE POEMS, WAS STRUGGLING FOR UTTERANCE LONG 
BEFORE HE SAW THE LIGHT, HE HAS BEEN THE 
DEAREST EXAMPLE OF THEIR ATTRACTIVE- 
NESS TO LITTLE CHILDREN. 



PREFACE. 



The text of the poems in this volume is, for the most part, the same as that adopted by Prof. 
Knight, in his Wordsworth Society volume of Selections (1888). Of poems not contained in Knight's 
Selections the text of the best editions has been followed. It is well understood that "Wordsworth's 
own corrections of the text were not always for the better. 

It will be observed that a portion of one of the poems on The Daisy is given in Part I., and in full 
In Part II. 

In Part I. an extract has been made from The miite Doe suitable to very young readers. Un- 
fortunately, the poem was too long to give in full in Part II. The Prologue to Peter Bell is given 
merely because of its f airy-like-ness, and its probable attractiveness to the young. 

Part III. is separated from Part II. because — as is evident — the extracts and selections are too 
serious for the average child — being purely descriptions of Nature, with little or no human interest. 
Probably most children will have to grow into these beautiful descriptions after enjoying Parts I. 
and II. I have taken the liberty of aflixing titles to the passages which are chosen from The Prelude 
and The Excursion, and to a few of the others. There is a difference of opinion concerning the 
mountains intended by Wordsworth, in ITie Excursion, where he says, 

" I could not, ever and anon, forbear 

To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks." 

But the Langdale Pikes have the weight of opinion in their favor. 

It is earnestly hoped that the charming bits from TJie Prelude will prove the vestibule to usher 
the child-reader into the more glorious Cathedral. Then indeed will he be able to discern for him- 
self, and — what is better — possess "thatinw^ard eye" which shall make life sweeter and holier. 

I have to express my heartiest thanks to the friends who have favored me with helpful sugges- 
tions in preparing this little book for the press. I am under many obligations for encouragement 
and advice to Prof. Knight of St. Andrew's, Scotland, the founder and upholder of the "Words- 
worth Society," the author of much valuable Wordsworth literature, as well as the most complete 
edition of the Poems. C. M. St. J. 

Ithaca, N. Y., Nov. 1890. 




INTRODUCTIOK FOR PARENTS AND TEACHERS. 



Part I. For Young Children. 



The Cottager to Her Infant. 


15 


Address to a Child. 


16 


The Mother's Return. 


19 


Loving and Liking. 


22 


The Kitten and Falling Leaves. 


25 


To the Small Celandine. 


28 


The Daisy (Extract). 


31 


Lucy Gray. 


33 


The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly. 


37 


Rural Architecture. 


39 


Characteristic of a Favorite Dog. 


40 


Written in March. 


42 


Foresight. 


43 


We are Seven. 


45 


To the Clouds. 


48 



The Idle Shepherd Boys. 


50 


The White Doe of Rylstone (Extract). 


S3 


The Blind Highland Boy. 


56 


The Westmoreland Girl. 


63 


The Daffodils. 


64 


Fidelity. 


65 


The Pet Lamb. 


66 


The Green Linnet. 


70 


The Last of the Flock. 


72 


To a Butterfly. 


77 


From The Prologue to Peter Bell. 


78 


To The Cuckoo. 


81 


Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 


83 


Alice Fell. 


87 



Part II. For Older Children. 



Impromptu. 


93 


The Boy of Winander. 


94 


" So Fair, So Sweet, withal so Sensitive." 


95 


To a Child. 


95 


To the Same Flower. (The Celandine) • 


96 


To the Daisy. 


97 


To the Same Flower. 


98 


By the Side of Rydal Mere. 


99 


To a Sky-lark. 


99 


The Waterfall and the Eglantine. 


IOC 


The Oak and the Broom. 


lOI 


Simon Lee. 


. 103 


The Danish Boy. 


105 


The Sailor's Mother. 


106 



The Solitary Reaper. 107 
The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman. 108 

To a Highland Girl. - 109 

The Reverie of Poor Susan. iii 

The Old Cumberland Beggar (Extract). 112 

Hart-Leap Well. 1x4 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle. 118 

Michael. 121 

The Horn of Egremont Castle. 129 

Character of the Happy Warrior. 131 

A Skating Scene (Prelude). 133 

It is a Beauteous Evening. 133 

Three Years She Grew. 134 



CONTENTS. 



Part III. Nature For Older Children, 



On Lake Esthwaite (Prelude). 137 

After a Party (Prelude). 138 

Ye Motions of Delight (Prelude). 138 

The Langdale Pikes (The Excursion). 139 
I Have Seen a Curious Child (The Excursion). 140 

A Sunrise (The Excursion). 140 

In the Wilderness (The Excursion). 141 

Airey-Force Valley. 142 

A Summer Evening. 142 

A Night-Piece. 143 



To My Sister. 

Lines Written in Early Spring. 

It Was an April Morning. 

Expostulation and Reply. 

Tables Turned. 

The Fountain 

The Two April Mornings. 

Nutting. 

Tintern Abbey. 



144 
145 

145 
146 

147 
147 
149 

150 
151 



^ 



INTRODUCTION. 



"The World is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers, 
Little we see in Nature that is ours.'' 

— Personal Talk. 

Do not we who live in a feverish age, need the calming and spiritualizing influence of the natural 
world ? 

We must admit that few people keep their hearts in a state to receive the spirit of Nature. When 
we spend a few weeks in the country, among the hills, or by the seashore, how soon we realize (if 
we stop to think about it) that very few of those about us see except with the physical eyes. Al- 
though to the initiated it does not seem easy to live in the world with eyes shut to the beauty and 
glory of Nature, it is very easy to live in this blind way. Does not a flood of artificiality, or absorp- 
tion in meaner objects, keep us from gaining a foothold upon Nature's high places ? i\nd what is 
true of Nature is equally true of poetry of the first magnitude. Even children, novvadaj's, are not 
taught to love poetry. Children, it is said, do not care for poetry — do not take to it — and there the 
matter rests. 

Consider the press of our daily life — its haste and its worry. Reflect upon the materialism which 
stalks upon our streets and wedges itself into the innermost recesses of our homes. Where can we 
make a place for poetry ? Is there room for calmness — for the spiritual side of our natures ? If 
the one side of the man is developed, and the other is left to take care of itself, must it — the poeti- 
cal — not languish and die? We would not expect that a rai'e orchid, whose nourishment is not 
taken from the earth, could thrive if deprived of its natural sustenance. 

It is necessary, therefore, that we surmount the difficulties and get back to Nature and to poetry. 
And it is to Wordsworth we should turn in the hope that through the sincerity, depth and sim- 
plicity of his verse we may learn those lessons that have been neglected in the overwhelming activity 
of this restless age. We cannot say that others have not written poetry equally great. But 
what other poet has so gone down into the soul, has helped to build up the soul in us ? Wordsworth's 
poetry grows as we grow — by the experience through which we have come. It is of all influences 
the simplest and the broadest. Any poetry Avhich so profoundly treats of God's relation to the uni- 
verse, and of man's relation both to the universe and to God, must be broad. 

" Wonder not 

If high the transport, prreat the joy I felt, 

Communing in this sort through earth and heaven, 

With every form of creature, as it looked 

Toward the uncreated, with a countenance 

Of adoration, with an eye of love." 

— The Prelude. 
7 



8 INTBODUCTION. 

More than this, we who know Wordsworth, know that he has caught the very sunbeams and dew- 
drops, and embodied them so that we can catch and touch them. No other poet ever went so pro- 
foundly into the very thought of God as written iu the natural world. He reveals to us what is hid- 
den from grosser eyes, as it was revealed to his passive soul — a soul emptied of self to receive the 
Infinite. We uncover our heads, as before one divinely appointed; we bow our intellects before a 
soul so pure. He has revelations which all that is true and pure within us responds to. We should 
not value his work so highly, if the Nature into whose glories he initiates us were the godless Nature 
that Shelley and Byron so musically interpret. It is not a Nature separated from God, for which our 
souls, created in his image, yearn. Wordsworth and Wordsworth's poetry will always be sacred to 
men and women who desire to commune with the Holy One at all communicable points. 

But we are met with another obstacle. Probably few people are capable witiiout assistance of 
entering into any communion with Nature, or of understanding such poetry as breathes the spirit of 
Nature. Many read the higiiest poetry on occasions, and would be surprised to be told that they did 
not appreciate what they read. Especially is it difficult to find any cultivated person who does not, 
more or less honestly, take it for granted that he has a full understanding of Nature as well as of 
Art. Of course, many an unlettered man or woman reads the secrets of God's world as unerringly 
as did Wordsworth, though only reading its more ordinary features ; and, as such unknown souls 
cannot be discovered to be counted, let us hope that they are as numerous as the delicate field flow- 
ers. However, the most serious fact still remains, that it is almost impossible to open people's eyes, 
after they have reached more mature years, to the deeper meanings of things of which they have 
been oblivious so much of their lives. And few who have reached mature years can have this re- 
sponse to natural life and expression awakened in them. Especially is this true of an appreciation 
of Wordsworth, for it is obvious that his verse cannot gain entrance into the heart unless we have 
kept the child-mind. We cannot get beneath the surface of Nature, or of what this religious inter- 
preter of Nature has written, if we bring with us antagonistic interests, or a half-heartedness. This 
being true, is it not evident that some of our youth, who have no natural perception of the divine 
harmony, may, during the impressible years, have it revealed to them ? 

• There is no better way of bringing Nature to the child than bringing it to him through Words- 
worth, who himself knew that his poems were adapted to the young, and that the young were partic- 
ularly susceptible to Nature's influences. Once when speaking of the injury Mr. Jeffrey may have 
done him, he said that he never felt the critic's opinion of the slightest value, except in preventing the 
young of that generation from receiving impressions which might have been of use to them through 
life. Again he writes, "Every poet must difi"use heat and light; he must teach the present age by 
counselling with the future; he must plead for posterity." In a note to The Norman Boy, Words- 
worth expresses the hope that this poem may concur Avith his other poems on little children in pro- 
ducing profitable reflection among his youthful readers. He further says in this connection, "This 
is said, however, with an absolute conviction that children will derive most benefit from books 
which are not unworthy the perusal of persons of any age. I protest with my whole heart against 
those productions, so abundant in the present day, in which the doings of children are dwelt upon as 
if they were incapable of being interested in anything else." 

In one of Wordsworth's letters he gives his opinion on the influence of natural objects in forming 
the character. He holds that no human being is so debased as to be utterly insensible to the " colors, 
forms or smell of flowers — the voices and motions of birds and beasts, .the appearance of the sky." 
He further says, " And in childhood, in the first practice and exercise of their senses, they must have 
been not the nourishers merely, but often the fathers of their passions.'" And where are the voices 
and motions of birds, the appearance of the sky, so faithfully given as in his poems? Then turn to 
the poetry. Is there no truth in the exquisite poem, Three Years She Grew ? 

" Then Nature said . . . 
This cliild I to myself will take ; 



INTBODUCriON. . 9 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; forhertlie willow bend, 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm, 

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy." 

And — although Mr. Arnold said the idea had " no real solidity" — is there not something more 
than a " play of fancy " in the underlying idea of that famous Ode ? 

" Shades of the prison house begin co close 
Upon the growing Boy. . . . 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Thehomel}' Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hatli known. 

And that imperial palace whence he came." 

What, too, means the allusion to the impressibility of early childhood to holy influences, in the 
fourth book of The Excursion ? 

" Thou, who didst wrap the cloud 

Of infancj' around us, that Thyself 

Therein with our simplicity awhile \ 

Might'st hold, on earth commimion undisturbed. ... * 

This Universe shall pass away — a work 
Glorious ! because the shadow of Thy might, 
A step, or link, lor intercourse with Thee. 

If the dear Faculty of sight should fail, 
Still it maj' be allowed me to remember 
What visionary powers of eye and soul 
In youth were mine." 

Again, 

" Youth maintains. 

In allconditions of Society, 

Communion more direct and intimate 

With Nature — hence, ofttimes, with reason too — 

Than age or manhood even." 

In the ninth book of The Excursion, and in the fifth of The Frelttde are similar references. The 
first beginning, 

" Ah ! why in age 

Do we so fondly revert to the walks 

Of childhood — " 

As we have already intimated, the object of this Introduction is not merely to show Wordsworth's 
importance as a teacher of Nature, but to demonstrate that it is in childhood his teaching is especially 
useful and most easily received; and to unfold a plan by which children may come to love him. 
But have we any trustworthy evidence that education will do this work ? Can the child understand 
Wordsworth ? 

It is probable that less than a dozen volumes of Selections from Wordsworth — of any trustworthi- 
ness — have ever been published. And of these only one or two, now out of print, were at all suitable 
for the young. Of these, one was published some twenty-five or thirty years ago without a preface. 



10 INTB OD UC riON. 

The other is entitled Selections from Wordsworth, aud was arranged by one Joseph Hine of Brixton 
Lodge, Surrey, in the year 1831. Hine was a schoolmaster, and liis preface gives the history of the 
book. He tells that he has for many years been "extensively engaged in the tuition of youth," and 
gives his experience of the importance of good poetry to " open, enlarge and strengthen the mind." 
He thus relates his expei'ience with Wordsworth's poetry : "1 need scarcely say how great was the 
effect when I read Mr. Wordsworth's poems. The pupils were in a glow of delight, and never failed 
to listen with much attention, — were always deeply impressed with the matter and eager to hear 
more ; and numbers of them would apply to me to borrow the volume to read again and again." This 
le'd Mr. Hine to go to Wordsworth — the poems tlien being high-priced — and see if he might make a 
book of Selections for school purposes. The poet gave his permission -'without limitation." The 
selections would not be considered altogether judicious, perhaps, judged by the critical standards of 
to-day. But the effort was certainly most praiseworthy, and Hiue's idea of education far higher than 
the cramming -system now in vogue. But let one make real a scene in a school-room such as that de- 
scribed by him, and conti'ast it with the examinations in poetry now given in schools. Wordsworth 
himself wrote to Moxon, the publisher, in 1840, concerning the letters of gratitude which he was con- 
stantly receiving from the lovers of his poems, and speaks in particular of one " from a little boy of 
eight years old." 

In the Journal of the late Dr. Park of St. Andrew's, Woi-ds worth is reported as saying, "I am 
almost every day receiving letters from abroad and from various parts of Britain, expressive of grat- 
itude for moral benefit derived from what I have produced. Benefit to youna and, old, to children, as 
well as to grown men." 

We commonly see it stated by compilers of Wordsworth that his poetry cannot be expected to 
commend itself at once to the young and immature. On the contrary, there is abundant testimony 
that his poetry seldom commends itself at first reading to the mature, while his simpler poems are 
wont to m'ke their way straight to the child's heart. And why not ? Why should not children, if 
we have not crushed out what is original in them, be charmed with poetry ? Is it not evident that 
truth clothed in poetry will penetrate — if the soil is good — where the same truth in prose will not ? 
And wliy.p Ber-ause poetry is the language of nature, of simplicity, of intensity, — written to instruct 
by the way of th? heart, rather than by the head. We are obliged to get back the child-mind, or to 
have retained it, before we can receive the direct teachings of either nature or of poetry. Why not 
receive these teachings while possessing the child-freshness of heart ? Poetry is pictorial. It is an 
exalted system of object lessons, and very much beside. We unfold the minds of the children through 
their senses, according to modern methods. Poetry does this and appeals to the heart as well. 

Did yon ever stand awed before the poet, the creator, the imagination in the child ? And what 
part has the imagination to play in an appreciation of Nature ? When is that faculty the most free, 
the most active ? We talk about the child-like ima,gination — and we can select no loftier words to 
convey the idea. We seldom stop to consider, perhaps, that the child may penetrate farther and see 
more clearly because of his freshness of vision, his directness, his simplicity. Furthermore, do we 
not believe that there is a power in the recollection of the holy impressions of childhood, which has 
virtue in it ? This was Wordsworth's belief, and it is but consistent that the earnest study of his 
poems should engender the same belief. 

A good illustration of the permanency of the impression made upon the child-mind by Words- 
worth's poetry, is the experience of a professor of English Literature in one of our American col- 
leges. When a child of seven, his teacher, in the primary department -of the public school, read to 
the class Lucy Gray. Not until later youth did he discover who wrote that poem. But all through 
the years did the " wide moor" haunt his memory — abide with him, and wlien one day he stumbled 
upon the fact that Wordsworth wrote Lucy Gray his delight was unbounded. Yet one more instance 
— possibly an extreme one, but none the less pertinent. A little child not four years old, had read 
to him by his mother, The Idle Shepherd Boy, A Night-Piece, and one or two others. To the 



INTBODUCTION. U 

mother's surprise he showed more pleasure in these poems than in any of his own prettily illustrated 
books, talked about them early and late, and scarcely allowed a day to go by without begging for 
them. A surprising part of this enthusiasm lay in the fact that Goody Blake and Harry Gill was 
one of the favorites. 

A little elaboration may give our theory of education in Wordsworth a more practical shape. 
We should take the child when very young and familiarize him with such portions of Wordsworth's 
poetry as he can understand. With this as a startiug-point, we should seek to guide him into its 
spirit — which is only another name for Nature — by directing him to natural objects, till he sees for 
himself the identity of poetry and Nature, even before he can put the idea into words. So, when he 
is fitted for college or business life, he will go with a mind already attuned to grasp the higher har- 
monies. He cannot then pursue the sciences, nor study the literatures, as an uninitiated man ; and 
he will not enter into commercial life with so insatiable a greed, blind to the spiritual world beside 
him. He will be alive to those 

" Motions of deliffht that haunt the sides 
Of the greeu hills." 

Let me give some plain examples that no one can misunderstand. Instead of teaching the child 
to commit Mother Goose, we should interest him in the simplest of Wordsworth's poems ; in Lucy 
Gray, We are Seven, To the Cuckoo, The Blind Highland Boy, The Solitary Beaper, 21ie Daffodils, 
The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly, The Kitten and Falling Leaves, To the Small Celandine, To the 
Daisy. To illustrate the adaptation of the verses to the purpose, let me quote from one of these 
little poems here and there a line. 

From the poem on the Daisy : 

" A nun demure of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, 

A queen in crown of rubies drest 

A little Cyclops with one eye. 

A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
In fight to cover! 

, I see thee glittering from aiar — 
And then thou art a pretty star; 
Not quite so fair as many are 
Jn heaven above thee, 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest." 

It is to be regretted that the texture of the poetry has been ruined by this mutilation, but it has 
made prominent the pretty similes which rim through the poem, and which must attract a child. 
Compare this with Mother Goose : 

" Who comes here ? A grenadier. 
What do you want ? A pot of beer. 
Where is your money? I forgot. 
Get you gone, you drunken sot." 

and 

" Goosey, goosey, gander, whither shall I wander? 
Up stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber. 
There I met an old man, who would not say his prayers, 
I took him by his left leg and threw him down stairs." 



12 INTBODUCTION. 

Then as the child develops a delight in the briefer stories, we should abbreviate some of the 
longer tales (such as a child would not listen to in their entirety), which are among Wordsworth's 
tinest poems. For instance, The White Doe of Bylstone, Michael, The Boy of Winander, Song at 
the Feast of Brougham Castle, The Horn of Egremont Castle, The Old Cumberland Beggar, Expostu- 
lation and Beply, Character of a Happy Warrior, Hart-Leap Well, etc. We should try to make the 
story of The- Solitary and The Wanderer interesting, as undoubtedly they could be made, in spite of 
the popular verdict. 

We should tell the story of the poet's life, as given in The Prelude. There are many facts re- 
lated in the first books that one could weave into a story — a true story of a boy's life. Can you re- 
call a prettier midsummer scene or a more fascinating winter scene, written from a boy's heart, than 
is to be found in "The Prelude ? Make it a point to keep the children in sympathy with the boy, and 
the man, Wordsworth, not because his example is to be followed, but simply to give them a compre- 
hension of his spirit, and of the reason of his devotion to Nature and to poetry. Is there anythin«>- 
which will train the eye and ear, awaken a kind heart and an appreciation of others' sorrows es- 
pecially of the sorrows of the poor and aged — as will these tales ? 

And if the child only gets a taste for Wordsworth, it is of no importance how commonplace the 
poems are which develop it. Perhaps the word relish is a better one. The point is to develop a 
relish for the poetry, and to do this before the child is prejudiced against it by the complexity and 
swiftness of our age. The interest once awakened can never die. We Avant to take to heart what 
poetry teaches ; we do not want to expend ourselves upon its mere technique. Nor will these tales 
develop the sickly sentiment and sentimental nervousness, which sap the best part of the child- 
nature, and dwarf the man. There is little doubt that these stories will be hailed with delight by 
the growing child, when he can read for himself. 

And this is not all. As soon as a child is able to understand beauty in the flowers, the streams 
and the sky, he should be fed upon such poems as Nutting, The Tables Turned, and 7 intern Abbey; 
and his lessons should begin by our showing him how to gain pleasure from them by listening. We 
should be very cautious not to dig up the seed to see if it has taken root. When we are sure that M-e 
have created an enthusiasm, we need never inquire as to the exact knowledge gained. When some- 
thing in Nature has impressed its beauty upon the child-mind, we should constantly refer to the 
poems themselves. And most certainly the powers of observation will be trained, and thinking for 
one's self (which is getting to be so rare), and the power of quietness, will be among the fruits. 

The study of Wordsworth is not advocated in this paper to the exclusion of other poets. But 
this fact is emphasized, that Wordsworth can fill a place which needs to be filled. Plenty of room 
is left for other good things, after the taste and judgment are quickened and formed. The individ- 
ual mind can be then safely left to itself, to follow its own path among other books good and bad. A 
lover of Wordsworth cannot become an indiscriminate devourer of books. Nor would we presume 
that the course which has been marked out will suit every child. There are children who will take 
to it naturally, and with whom there will be no difficulty, if the parent or teacher has but sufficient 
enthusiasm. There are other children —possibly in the same family — with whom some tact may 
be used, before the plan maybe practicable. Nor can it be denied that some children are "non- 
conductors," though in all probability, such children are few. Lovers of Wordsworth should how- 
ever have faith in the possibilities of childhood. 

The work ought to begin with the mother, but it may, in some cases, begin with the teacher. 
Every teacher has the opportunity of directing a child's reading and its memorizing, though of 
course, he cannot do the work as thoroughly as the mother can. But any effort in this direction 
that a teacher may make, will be of real benefit. The work, which may be accomplished in our 
higher schools and colleges — a work not wholly critical, nor wholly poetical — is not discussed in 
this paper. 

What Wordsworth can do for the young who are brought into connection with his living 



INTBODUGTION. 13 

thought, must follow as truly as daylight follows darkness, or as summer follows spring. We can- 
not influence youth by preaching to them, nor force them to learn by our experiences; but when a 
young man's heart is opened to tlie influence of Wordsworth, to the love of his poetry, some of the 
greatest and most necessary of life's lessons will have taken root. This course will only require the 
time usually given to ordinary, sometimes useless, literature, and probably the average mother, who 
has any time at her command, is enough of a companion to her child to do this work easily and with 
no small profit to herself, for do not parents learn many things as they think with their children? 

The question naturally arises. Are our schools and colleges still neglecting to make use of this 
teacher of Nature? A professor of poetry wrote as late as 1890 : " The study of poetry in our insti- 
tutions of learning, so far as I have taken note of It, and the education induced thereby, is almost 
purely intellectual. The student's spiritual nature is left to take care of itself; and the consequence 
is that he becomes, at best, only a thinking and analyzing machine." And, even though Wordsworth 
is recognized as something more than a writer of a certain period, how often is his message made 
■clear in our educational institutions? One instance came under my notice. A professor of literature 
in an American college took up Wordsworth's poetry in due course, and read — and read only — 
Peter Bell to his class as a specimen of the poetry of Wordsworth. When this gentleman was 
accused, perhaps unjustly, of belittling the poet to the young men before him, he replied, that he 
really liked the poem, because it contained some of the most sublime of Wordsworth's thoughts and 
^Iso many of his absurdities. But is Peter Bell a fair, or a characteristic specimen of Words- 
worth's poetry? 

It is a mistaken notion that true poetry, or that the love of Nature, unfits one for practical life. 
John Burroughs, in one of his delightful chapters, indirectly speaks of the revelation that Words- 
worth was to the logical mind of John Stuart Mill ; and thus does Burroughs himself speak of the 
poet: " No other English poet has touched me quite so closely as Wordsworth. All cultivated men 
■delight in Shakespeare ; he is the universal genius ; but Wordsworth's poetry has more the character 
of a message, and a message special and personal, . . . and his service to certain minds is like 
an initiation into a new order of truths. Shakespeare is, of course, preeminent in all purely poetic 
achievement, but his poems can never minister to the spirit in the way Wordsworth's do." William 
Wordsworth was a prophet who sang the same burden of song which has thrilled the heart of the 
<levout listener from the lips of the poet David, and long before David was. 



PART I. 
FOR YOUNG CHILDREN. 




THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 




BY MY SISTER. 



The days are cold, the nights are long, 
The north-wind sings a doleful song ; 
Then hush again upon my breast ; 
All merry things are now at rest, 
Save thee, my pretty Love ! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
There's nothing stir- 
ring in the house ^ ^_ 

Save one wee, hungry, nib- ^^HR^N''' "4P>i^'^ 
bling mouse. 
Then why so busy thou ? 



Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright 
On the window pane bedropped with rain 
Then, little Darling! sleep again. 
And wake when it is day. 



15 





ADDEESS TO A CHILD, 
During a Boisterous Winter Evening. 



BY MY SISTER. 



What way does the Wind come ? What way does he go ? 
He rides over the water, and over the snow. 
Through wood, and through vale ; and, o'er rocky height 
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight ; 




He tosses about in every bare tree, 
As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
There's never a scholar in England knows. 
16 



ADDRESS TO A CHILD. 



17 



He will suddenly stop in a cunning 

nook 
And ring a sharp 'larum ; — but, if 

you should look, 
There's nothing to see but a cushion 

of snow- 
Round as a pillow, and whiter than 

milk, 
And softer than if it were covered 

with silk. 
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of 

a rock. 
Then whistles as shrill as the buzzard 

cock; 
— Yet seek him, — and what shall 

you find in the place ? 
Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry 

leaves. 
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars 

or thieves ! 
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard, and then you 

will see 
That he has been there, and made a great 

rout. 




And cracked the branches, and strewn them 

about; 
Heaven grant that he spare but that one 

upright twig 
1 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 




All last summer, as well you know. 
Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 



18 



ADDBESS TO A CHILI). 




Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
And growls as if he would fix his claws 
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
Drive them down, like men in a battle : 

— But let him range round; he does us no harm, 
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; 
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright^ 
And burns with a clear and steady light ; 

Books have we to read, — but that half-stifled knell, 
Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 

— Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are there 
He may work his own will, and what shall we care ?' 
He may knock at the door,— -we'll not let him in; 
May drive at the windows, — we'll laugh at his din ;, 
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 





THE MOTHER'S RETURN. 



BY THE SAME. 



A MONTH, sweet little-ones, is past 
Since your clear Mother went away, 
And she to-morrow will return ; 
To-morrow is the happy day. 

blessed tidings ! thought of joy! 
The eldest heard with steady glee ; 



Silent he stood : then laughed amain, — 
And shouted, " Mother, come to me ! " 

Louder and louder did he shout. 
With witless hope to bring her near ; 
" Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
Your tender mother cannot hear." 

I told of hills, and far-off towns, 
And long, long vales to travel through ;- 
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
But he submits : what can he do ? 




20 



THE MOTHERS BETUBN. 




No strife disturbs his sister's breast 
She wars not with the mystery 
Of time and distance, night and day ; 
The bonds of our humanity. 

Her joy is like an instinct joy 
Of kitten, bird or summer fly ; 
She dances, runs without an aim, 
She chatters in her ecstasy. 

Her brother now takes up the note, 
And echoes back his sister's glee ; 
They hug the infant in my arms. 
As if to force his sympathy. 




r 







Then, settling into fond discourse. 
We rested in the garden bower ; 
While sweetly shone the evening sun 
In his departing hour. 

We told o'er all that we had done, — 
Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
Where two fair swans tosrether s:lide. 




THE MOTHERS BETUBN. 



21 



We talked of change, of winter gone, 
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, 
Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
And all "since Mother went away!" 

To her these tales they will repeat, 
To her our new-born tribes will show, 
The goslings green, the ass's colt. 
The lambs that in the meadow go. 

— But, see, the evening star comes forth ! 
To bed the children must depart ; 
A moment's heaviness they feel, 
A sadness at the heart : 




;"^3(g^-^; t-;- 




^f^'-^jf 



i Q - 







'Tis gone — and in a merry fit 

They run upstairs in gamesome race ; 

I, too, infected by their mood, 

I could have joined the wanton chase. 

Pive minutes past — and, the change ! 
Asleep upon their beds they lie ; 
Their busy limbs in perfect rest. 
And closed the sparkling eye. 



LOVING AND LIKIKG. 

Ibregular Verses, Addressed to a Child. 

by mt sister, 



HERE'S more in words than I can teach : 
Yet listen, Child ! — I would not preach; 
But only give some plain directions 
To guide your speech and your affections. 
Say not you love a roasted fowl, 
But you may love a screaming owl. 




And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 

That crawls from his secure abode 

22 



LOVING AND LIKING. 



23 



Within the mossy garden wall 
When evening clews begin to fall. 
Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 
What wonders in that circle lie! 
So clear, so bright, our father said 
He wears a jewel in his head ! ' 
And when, upon some showery day, 
Into a path or public way 
A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 
Startling the timid as they pass, 
Do you observe him, and endeavor 
To take the intruder into favor ; 
Learning from him to find a reason 
For a light heart in a dull season. 
And you may love him in the pool, 
That is for him a happy school, 
In which he swims as taught by nature. 
Fit pattern for a human creature, 
Glancing amid the water bright. 
And sending upward sparkling light. 

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
A love for things that have no feeling : 
The spring's first rose by you espied. 
May fill your breast with joyful pride; 
And you may love the strawberry-flower, 
And love the strawberry in its bower; 
But when the fruit, so often praised 
For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
Say not you love the delicate treat, 
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 
Long may you 
love your pen- 
sioner mouse, 
Though one of a 
tribe that tor- 
ment the house : 
Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
Deadly foe both of mouse and rat ; 
Bemember she follows the law of her kind. 
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
Then think of her beautiful gliding form. 
Her tread that would scarcely crush a worm. 





24 



LOVING AND LIKING. 




And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
Soft as the djdng throb of the lyre. 
: I would not circumscribe your love : 
It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove, 
May pierce tlie earth with the patient mole. 
Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
Loving and lik- 



J ing are the sol- 
I ace of life, 
Rock the cradle 
of joy, smooth 
the deathbed 
of strife. 
You love your 
father and 
your mother, 
Your grown-up and your baby -brother; 
You love your sister, and your friends, 
And countless blessings which God sends : 
And while these right affections play, 

You live each moment of your day ; 
They lead you on to full content, 
And liking fresh and innocent, 
That store the mind, the memory feed, 
And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
But likings come, and pass away ; 
'Tis love that remains till our latest day : 
Our heavenward guide is holy love, 
And will be our bliss with saints above. 





^N^// 




THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 

That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the Kitten on the wall, 
Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air 
Of this morning bright and fair, 
Eddying round and round they sink 
Softly, slowly : one might think. 
From the motions that are made, 
Every little leaf conveyed 
Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
To this lower world descending, 
Each invisible and mute, 
25 



26 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 





In her upward eye of fire ! 
With a tiger-leap half-way 
JS'ow she meets the coming prey, 
Lets it go as fast, and then 
Has it in her power again : 
ITow she works with three or four. 
Like an Indian conjurer ; 
Quick as he in feats of art, 
Par beyond in joy of heart. 



In his wavering parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts, 
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
First at one, and then its fellow 
Just as light and just as yellow ; 
There are many now — now one — 
Now they stop and there are none. 
What intenseness of desire 

Were her antics played in the eye 
Of a thousand standers-by, 
Clapping hands with shout and stare. 
What would little Tabby care 
For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
Over happy to be proud. 
Over wealthy in the treasure 
Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 




'Tis a pretty baby-treat; 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
Other playmate can I see. 
Of the countless living things, 
That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade, 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
And with busy revellings. 
Chirp and song, and murmurings, 
Made this orchard's narrow space, 
And this vale so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes are swept away 




THE KlTTEN^ AND FALLING LEAVES. 



27 




"Never more to breathe the day : 
.Some are sleeping; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands ; 
'Others slunk to moor and wood, 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 
With us openly abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
IBlue-cap, with his colors bright. 
Who was blest as bird could be, 
Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
'Turning blossoms inside out ; 
Hung — head pointing towards the ground - 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 



Light of heart and light of limb ; 

What is now become of Him ? 

Lambs, that through the mountains went 

Frisking, bleating merriment, 

When the year was in its prime. 

They are sobered by this time. 

If you look to vale or hill, 

If you listen, all is still. 

Save a little neighboring rill, 

That from out the rocky ground 

Strikes a solitary sound. 

Vainly glitter hill and plain, 

And the air is calm in vain ; 

Vainly Morning spreads the lure 

Of a sky serene and pure ; 

Creature none can she decoy 

Into open sign of joy: 

Is it that they have a fear 

Of the dreary season near ? 

Or that other pleasures be 

Sweeter even than gaiety ? 



P fv V-'Ff-'*-. X"" '" 





TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 




Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine. 




Eyes of some men travel far 
Eor the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens they go,. 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
I'm as great as they, I trow. 
Since the day I found thee out, 
Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir^ 
Like a sasje astronomer. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 



29 



Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low, 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face I did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush. 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest, 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 




Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
Travel with the multitude : 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers ; 










ii' i^ 



MikilB^li^^ Hmi' 4 




30 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 



But the thrifty cottager, 
Who stirs little out of doors, 
Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 



Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit! 
Careless of thy neighborhood. 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood. 
In the lane; — there's not a place. 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 



Ill befal the yellow flowers. 
Children of the flaring hours ! 
Buttercups, that Avill be seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 






A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought conies next — and 
instantly 
The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish — and be- 
hold 
A silver shield with boss of 

gold, 
That spreads itself some faery 
bold 
In fight to cover ! 



TO THE DAISY. 



And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 
While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 




31 



82 



TO THE DAISY. 





I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 




Bright Flower! for by that name at last, 

When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 




LUCY GRAY; 

OR, SOLITUDE. 



^J^-/&^. 





■ — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen, 

"To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 



Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor. 




34 



LUCY OB AT. 



"That, Father! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon ! " 




The storm came on before its time : 
She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlona: from their door. 



At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a fagot-band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe . 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 




LUCY GRAY. 



35 



They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 




Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone-wall ; 



And then an open field they crossed : 
The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one. 



36 



LUCY GBAY. 



Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day- 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 




w j>,^ ■s? 










THE PvEDBEEAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. 

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 
The pious bird, with the scarlet breast, 

Our little English Robin ; 
The bird that comes about our doors 
When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia far inland ? 



'^^^ ^^^^T~^Jy^L 







T 1 1 ' •' 



V • if lull' 



^^''^< 



_ ^^ ^^*<<-%^;jr^^-{5/i'*'^-^ '' 




The bird, that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother. 
The darling of children and men ? 
Could Father Adam open his eyes, 
And see this sight beneath the skies, 
He'd wish to close them again. 
37 



38 



THE BEDBBEAST CHASING THE BUTTEBFLY. 





— If tlie Butterfly knew but his friend, 
Hither his flight he would bend; 
And find his way to me, 
Under the brandies of the tree : 
In and out, lie darts about ; 
Can this be the bird, to man so good, 
That, after their bewildering. 
Covered with leaves the little children, 
So painfully in the wood ? 

What ailed thee, Eobin, that thou could'st pursue 

A beautiful creature. 
That is gentle by nature ? 
Beneath the summer sky 
From flower to flower let him fly ; 
'Tis all that he wishes to do. 
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
He is the friend of our summer gladness : 
What hinders, then, that ye should be 
Playmates in the sunny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ! 

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 

A crimson as bright as thine own : 

Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 

pious Bird ! whom man loves best. 

Love him, or leave him alone ! 



■^^^ 




EUEAL ARCHITECTUEE. 

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Eeginald 

Shore, 
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more 
Than the height of a counsellor's bag ; 
To the top of Great How did it please them to climb: 
And there they built up, without mortar or lime, 
A Man on the peak of the crag. 

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay : 
They built him and christened him all in one day, 
An urchin both vigorous and hale; 
And so Avithout scruple they called him Ealph Jones. 
Now Ealph is renowned for the length of his bones ; 
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. 



Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, 
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north. 
Coming on with a terrible pother, 
From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. 
And what did these school-boys ? — The very next day 
They went and they built up another. 

— Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works 
By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, 
Spirits busy to do and undo : 

At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag; 
Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag; 
And I'll build up a giant with you. 

39 






INCIDENT 



CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVORITE DOG. 




':^? 




On his morning rounds the Master 

Goes to learn how all things fare; 

Searches pasture after pasture, 

Sheep and cattle eyes with care; 

And, for silence or for talk, 

He hath comrades in his walk ; 

Four dogs, each j)air of different breed, 

Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 

See a hare before him started ! 
— Off they fly in earnest chase ; 
Every dog is eager-hearted, 



All the four are in the race : 
And the hare whom they pursue 
Knows from instinct what to do ; 
Her hope is near : no turn she makes; 
But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 




INCIDENT. 



41 




Deep the river was, and crusted 
Thinly by a one night's frost; 
But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
To the ice, and safely crest; 
She hath crost, and without heed 
All are following at full speed, 
When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, 
is overhead! 



Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
See them cleaving to the sport ! 
Music has no heart to follow, 
Little Music, she stops short. 
She hath neither wish nor heart, 
Hers is now another part : 
A loving creature she, and brave ! 
And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. 

From the brink her paws she stretches, 

Very hands as you would say ! 

And afflicting moans she fetches, 

As he breaks the ice away. 

For herself she hath no fears, — 

Him alone she sees and hears, — 

Makes efforts with complainings ; nor gives o'er 

Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. 






The Cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun : 

The oldest and youngest 
Are at work with the strongest; 
The cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising; 
There are forty feeding like one! 

Like an army defeated 
The snow hath retreated, 
And now doth fare ill 
On the top of the bare hill ; 



The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : 

There's joy in the mountains; 

There's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 




42 







FOEESIGHT. 




Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 

Pull as many as you can. 

— Here are daisies, take your fill; 

Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower : 

Of the lofty daffodil 

Make your bed, or make your bower ; 

Pill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 

Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! 



That is work of waste and ruin — 
Do as Charles and I are doing! 
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 
We must spare them — here are many 
Look at it — the flower is small. 
Small and low, though fair as any : 
Do not touch it ! summers two 
I am older, Anne, than you. 



u 



FOB E SIGHT. 




Primroses, the Spring may love them — 
Summer knows but little of them : 
Violets, a barren kind. 
Withered on the ground must lie; 
Daisies leave no fruit behind 
When the pretty flowerets die ; 
Pluck them, and another year 
As many will be blowing here. 

God has given a kindlier power 
To the favored strawberry- flower. 
Hither soon as spring is fled 
You and Charles and I will walk; 
Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
Then will hang on every stalk, 
Each within its leafy bower ; 
And for that promise spare the flower ! 




WE ARE SEVEN. 



A simple Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb. 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 

She was eight years old, she said ; 




Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 



She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
— Her beauty made me glad. 
45 



46 



WE ABE ISEVEN. 



" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
"How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
She answered, " Sevexi are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

''You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 




Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church-yard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 




"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little Maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
And they are side by side. 

My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit. 
And sing a song to them. 

And often after sun-set, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 



wi: ARE seven: 



47 



The first that died was sister Jane • 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain • 
And then she went away. 




" How many are yon, then," said I, 
" If the}'- two are in heaven ? " 
Quick Avas the little Maid's reply, 
" Master ! we are seven.' 



So m the church -yard she was laid ; 
And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave Ave played, 
% brother John and I. 



" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
'Twas throAving words away ; for still 
The little Maid wonld have her will, 
And said, ''Nay, we are seven!" 




TO THE CLOUDS. 



Abmy of Clouds! ye winged Host in troops 
Ascending from behind the motionless brow 
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
"What seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale 
Companions, fear ye to be left behind, 
Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
Contend ye with each other ? of the sea 
Children, thus post ye over vale and height 
To sink upon your mother's lap — and rest? 

Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine 

eyes 
Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness 
Of a wide army pressing on to meet 
Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; 
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares 
Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds 
Aerial, upon due migration bound 







To milder climes ; or rathur do ye urge 
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 
To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
Than these, and utter your devotion there 
With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant, 
48 



TO THE CLOUDS. 



49 




And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, 
Be present at his setting ; or the pomp 
Of Persian mornings would ye till, and stand 
Poising your splendors high above the heads 
Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ? 




Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness of speed ? 
Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, are fled, 
Buried together in yon gloomy mass 
That loads the middle heaven ; . . . 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; 
Or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force. 



A PASTORAL. 




HE valley rings with mirtli and. joy; 
Among the hills the echoes play 
A never, never ending song, 
To welcome in the May. 
The magpie chatters with delight ; 
The mountain raven's youngling brood 
Have left the mother and the nest ; 
And they go rambling east and west 
In search of their own food ; 

Or through the glittering vapors dart 

In very wantonness of heart. 

Beneath a rock upon the grass, 

Two boys are sitting in the sun ; 

Their work, if any work they have, 

Is out of mind — or done. 

On pipes of sycamore they play 

The fragments of a Christmas hymn ; 

Or with that plant which in our dale 
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
Their rusty hats they trim : 
And thus, as happy as the day. 
Those shepherds wear the time away. 



Along the river's stony marge 
The sand-lark chants a joyous song; 
The thrush is busy in the wood. 
And carols loud and strong; 
A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 
All newly born ! both earth and sky 
Keep jubilee, and more than all. 
Those boys with their green coronal ; 
They never hear the cry, 
That plaintive cry ! Avhich up the hill 
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

50 




THE IDLE SHEPHEBD-BOYS. 



51 




Said Walter, leaping from the 

ground, 
"Down to the stump^ of yon old 

yew 
We'll for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew ; 

They leapt — they ran — and when 

they came 
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing that he should loose the 

prize, 
" Stop ! " to his comrade Walter 

cries — 
James stopped with no good will : 
You'll find a task for half a year. 
Said Walter then, exulting • 

" Here 



Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 

The other took him at his word, 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go ; 

Into a chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of 

rock : 
The gulf is deep below ; 
And, in a basin black and small, 
Eeceives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff in hand across the cleft 
The challenger pursued his march 




52 



THE IDLE SHEFHEBD-BOYS. 



And now, all hands and feet, hath gained 

The middle of the arch. 

When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 

Again ! — his heart within him dies — 

His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 

He totters, pallid as a ghost, 

And, looking down, espies 

A lamb, that in the pool is pent 

Within that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream, 
And safe without a bruise or wound 
The cataract had borne him down 
Into the gulf profound. 
His dam had seen him when he fell, 
She saw him down the torrent borne ; 
And, while with all a mother's love 
She from the lofty rocks above 



The Boy recovered heart, and told 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task ; 

Nor was there wanting other aid — 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books. 

By chance had thither strayed ; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool, 
And brought it forth into the light : 
The Shepherds met him with his 

charge. 
An unexpected sight ! 
Into their arms the lamb they took, 
Whose life and ILmbs the flood had 

spared ; 




Sent forth a cry forlorn, 

The lamb, still swimming round and round, 

Made answer to that plaintive sound. 

When he had learnt Avhat thing it was, 
That sent this rueful cry ; I ween 



Then up the steep ascent they hied, 
And placed him at his mother's side; 
And gently did the Bard 
Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid. 
And bade them better mind their 
trade. 




THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; 
OR, The Fate of the Nortons. 




ANTO FIRST. 

From Bolton's old monastic tower 
The bells ring loud with gladsome power ; 
; The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
With people in their best array 
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 
Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
Through the Vale retired and lowly, 
Trooping to that summons holy. 
And, wp among the moorlands, see 
What sprinklings of bright company! 
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms. 
That down the steep hills force their way, 
Like cattle through the budded brooms; 
Path, or no path, what care they? 
And thus in joyous mood they hie 
To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 



What Avould they there ? — Full fifty years 
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower 
Is standing with a voice of power. 
That ancient voice which wont to call 
To mass or some high festival ; 
And in the shattered fabric's heart 
Itemaineth one protected part; 

53 




54 



THE WHITE DOE OF BYLSTONE. 




A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, 
Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
And thither young and old repair. 
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 



Fast the church-yard fills ; — anon 
Look again, and they all are gone ; 
The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak ! 
And scarcely have they disappeared 
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — 
With one consent the people rejoice, 
Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
They sing a service Avhich they feel : 
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal ; 
Of a pure faith the vernal prime — 
In great Eliza's golden time. 

A moment ends the fervent din. 
And all is hushed, without and within ; 
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
Recites the holy liturgy, 
The only voice which you can hear 
Is the river murmuring near. 
— AVhen soft! — the dusky trees between. 
And down the path through the open green, 
Where is no living thing to be seen; 
And through yon gateway, where is found. 
Beneath the arch Avith ivy bound. 
Free entrance to the church-yard ground — 
Conies gliding in with lovely gleam. 
Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
Soft and silent as a dream, 
A solitary Doe ! 




White she is as lily of June, 
And beauteous as the silver moon 
When out of sight the clouds are driven. 
And she is left alone in heaven ; 



THE WHITE DOE OF BYL STONE. 



55 



Or like a ship some gentle day 

In sunshine sailing far away, 

A glittering ship, that hath the plain 

Of ocean for her own domain. 

— But hers are eyes serenely bright. 
And ou she moves — with pace how light ! 




Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown; 
And thus she fares, until at last 
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
In quietness she lays her down ; 
Gentle as a weary wave 
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
Even so, without distress, doth she 
Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 

The day is placid in its going. 
To a lingering motion bound, 
Like the crystal stream now flowing 
With its softest summer sound : 
So the balmy minutes pass. 
While this radiant Creature lies 
Couched upon the dewy grass. 
Pensively with downcast eyes. 
— But now again the people raise 
With awful cheer a voice of praise ; 
It is the last, the parting song ; 
And from the temple forth they throng, 
And quickly spread themselves abroad, 



While each pursues his several road. 

But some — a variegated band 

Of middle-aged, and old, and young. 

And little children by the Land 

Upon their leading mothers hung — 

With mute obeisance gladly paid 

Turn towards the spot, where, full in view, 

The white Doe to her service true. 

Her sabbath couch has made. 

" Look, there she is, my Child ! draw 
near : 




She fears not, wherefore should -,ve fear ? 
She means no harm ; " — but still the Boy, 
To whom the words were softly said. 
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, 
A shame-faced blush of glowing red ! 
Again the Mother whispered low, 
"Now you have seen the famous Doe; 
From Rylstone she hath found her way 
Over the hills this Sabbath-day ; 
Her work, whate'er it be, is done. 
And she will depart when we are gone ; 
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
Her Sabbath morning, foul or fair." 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 




A TALE TOLD BY THE FIEE-SIDE. AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMEKE. 

OW we are tired of boisterous joy, 
Have romped enough, my little Boy ! 
Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
And you shall bring your stool and rest ; 
This corner is your own. 

There! take your seat, and let me see 

That you can listen quietly : 
And, as I promised, I will tell 
That strange adventure, which befell 
A poor blind Highland Boy. 

A Highland Boy ! — why call him so ? 
Because, my Darlings, ye must know 
That, under hills which rise like towers 
Far higher hills than these of ours ! 
He from his birth had lived. 



He ne'er had seen one earthly sight ; 
The sun, the day ; the stars, the night 
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower. 
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, 
Or woman, man, or child. 

And yet he neither drooped nor pined, 
Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
For God took pity on the Boy, 
And was his friend ; and gave him joy 
Of which we nothing know. 

His Mother, too, no doubt above 
Her other children him did love ; 
For, was she here, or was she there. 
She thought of him with constant care, 
And more than mother's love. 




And proud she was of heart, when clad 
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, 
And bonnet with a feather gay, 
To Kirk he on the Sabbath day 

Went hand in hand with her. 



66 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 



57 



A dog, too, had he ; not for need, 
But one to play with and to feed ; 
Which would have led him, if bereft 
Of company or friends, and left 
Without a better guide. 




And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
Aud thus from house to house would go ; 
And all were pleased to hear and see, 
For none made sweeter melody 

Than did the poor blind Boy. 

Yet he had many a restless dream ; 
Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
And when he heard the torrents roar, 
And heard the water beat the shore 

Near which their cottage stood. 




Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; 
But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
That, rough or smooth, is full of change, 
And stirrinsT in its bed. 



For to this lake, by night and day 
The great Sea-water finds its way 
Through long, long windings of the hills 
Aud drinks up all the pretty rills 

And rivers large and strong : 

Then hurries back the road it came — 
Returns, on errand still the same ; 
This did it when the earth was new ; 
And this for evermore Avill do. 

As long as earth shall last. 

And, with the coming of the tide, 
Come boats and ships that safely ride 
Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
And to the shepherds with their flocks 
Rringj tales of distant lands. 




58 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 




And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
The blind Boy always had his share ; 
Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
With warmer suns and softer gales, 
Or wonders of the Deep. 



Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred 
When from ibhe water-side he heard 
The shouting, and the jolly cheers; 
The bustle of the mariners 

In stillness or in storm. 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 



59 



But what do his desires avail ? 
For he must never handle sail; 
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, 
Upon the rocking waves. 




He in a vessel of his own, 
On the swift flood is hurrying down, 
Down to the mighty Sea. 

In such a vessel never more 
May human creature leave the shore ! 
If this or that way he should stir. 
Woe to the poor blind Mariner! 

For death will be his doom. 

But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, 
Eare beasts,and birds with plumage bright; 
Gifts which, for wonder or delight. 
Are brought in ships from far. 



His Mother often thought, and said, 
What sin would be upon her head 
If she should suffer this : "My Son 
Whate'er you do, leave this undone • 
The danger is so great." 

Tlius lived he by Loch-Leven's side 
Still sounding Avith the sounding tide. 
And heard the billows leap and dance, 
Without a shadow of mischance 
Till he was ten years old. 

When one day ( and now mark me well 
Te soon shall know how this befell) 




Such gifts had those seafaring men 
Spread round that haven in the glen ; 
Each hut, perchance, might have its own; 
And to the Boy they all were known — 
He knew and prized them all. 



60 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 



The rarest was a Turtle-shell 
Which he, poor Child, had studied well 
A shell of ample size, and light 
As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 

That sportive dolphins drew. 

And, as a Coracle that braves 
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
This shell upon the deep would swim, 
And gaily lift its fearless brim 
Above the tossing surge. 



A while he stood upon his feet ; 
He felt the motion — took his seat ; 
Still better pleased as more and more 
The tide retreated from the shore, 

And sucked, and sucked him in. 

And there he is in face of Heaven. 
How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
The fourth part of a mile, T ween, 
He thus had gone, ere he was seen 
By any human eye. 



And this the little blind Boy knew : 
And he a story strange yet true 
Had heard, how in a shell like this 
An English Boy, thought of bliss ! 

Had stoutly launched from shore ; 

Launched from the margin of a bay 
Among the Indian isles, where lay 
His father's ship, and had sailed far — 
To join that gallant ship of war, 
In his delightful shell. 

Our Highland Boy oft visited 
The house that held this prize; and, led 
By choice or chance, did thither come 
One day when no one was at home, 
And found the door unbarred. 




While there he sate, alone and blind. 
That story flashed upon his mind; — 
A bold thought roused him, and he took 
The shell from out its secret nook, 
And bore it on his head. 

He launched his vessel, — and in pride 
Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side, 
Stepped into it — his thoughts all free 
As the light breezes that with glee 

Sang through the adventurer's hair. 



But when he was first seen, oh me, 
What shrieking and what misery ! 
Por many saw ; among the rest 
His Mother, she who loved him best, 
She saw her poor blind Boy. 

But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
It is the triumph of his joy ! 
The bravest traveller in balloon, 
Mounting as if to reach the moon. 
Was never half so blessed. 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 



61 




And let him, let hiiu go his way, 
Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
For, if good Angels love to wait 
On the forlorn unfortunate, 

This Child will take no harm. 

But now the passionate lament, 
Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
The cries which broke from old and young 
In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 
Are stifled — all is still. 

And quickly with a silent crew 
A boat is ready to pursue : 
And from the shore their course they take, 
And swiftly down the running lake 
They follow the blind Boy. 

But soon they move with softer pace 5 
So have ye seen the fowler chase 
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 
With deftly-lifted oar ; 

Or as the wily sailors crept 
To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
The hapless creature which did dwell 
Erewhile within the dancing shell, 
They steal upon their prey. 

With sound the least that can, be made. 
They follow, more and more afraid. 
More cautious as they draw more near ; 
But in his darkness he can hear, 
And guesses their intent. 



'■'■ Lei-gha — Lei-gha'''' — he then cried out, 
" Lei-gha — Lei-gha " — with eager shout ; 
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray. 
And what he meant was, " Keep away. 
And leave me to myself I" 

Alas ! and when he felt their hands — 
You've often heard of magic wands. 
That with a motion overthrow 
A palace of the proudest show, 
Or melt it into air : 

So all his dreams — that inward light 
With which his soul had shone so bright — 
All vanished ; — 'twas a heartfelt cross 
To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
As he had ever known. 

But hark I a gratulating voice, 
With which the very hills rejoice : 
'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly 
Have vv^atched the event, and now can see 
That he is safe at last. 

And then, when he was brought to land, 
Full sure they were a happy band, 
Which, gathering round, did on the banks 
Of that great Water give God thanks, 
And welcomed the poor Child. 

And in the general joy of heart 
The blind Boy's little dog took part ; 
He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
His master's hands in sign of bliss, 
With sound like lamentation. 



62 



THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 



But most of all, his Mother dear, 
She who had fainted with her fear, 
Eejoiced when waking she espies 
The Child ; when she can trust her eyes : 
And touches the blind Boy. 

She led him home, and wept amain, 
When he was in the house again : 
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes ; 
She kissed him — how could she chastise ? 
She was too happy far. 



Thus, after he had fondly braved 
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; 
And, though his fancies had been wild, 
Yet he was pleased and reconciled 
To live in peace on shore. 

And in the lonely Highland dell 
Still do they keep the Turtle-shell ; 
And long the story will repeat 
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 
And how he was preserved. 



Note. — It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a boy, son of the captain of a Mau-of-War, 
seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in it fi'om the shore to his father's ship, which lay at 
anchor at the distance of half a mile. In deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have substituted 
such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to 
the dangerous current of Loch-Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness. 



THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 



TO MY GRANDCHILDREN. 



PART I. 











Oh ! it was a frightful current, 
Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved ; 
Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers, 
Shout in triumph, both are saved ; 



Seek who will delight in fable, 
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 

Ear and wide on hill and valley 
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain, 
And the bleating mother's Young-one 
Struggled with the hood in vain : 

But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
(Ten years scarcely had she told) 
Seeing, plunged into the torrent, 
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold. 

Whirled adoAvn the rocky channel. 
Sinking, rising, on they go, 
Peace and rest, as seems, before them 
Only in the lake below. 

Saved by courage that with danger 
Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
And belike a guardian angel 
Came with succor from above. 




63 




THE DAFFODILS. 

WANDERED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay. 

In such a jocund company : 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 





For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive, mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



64 



FIDELITY. 




A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; 

He halts — and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 

And now at distance can discern 

A stirring in a brake of fern ; 

And instantly a dog is seen, 

<ilancing through that covert green. 

The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
Unusual in its cry : 
ISTor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow or on height ; 
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ; 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway, or cultivated land ; 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak, 



In symphony austere ; 
Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
The Shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
As quickly as he may ; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground ; 
The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 

At length i;pon the Shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear : 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came ; 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the Traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of Avords 

This Avonder merits well. 

The Dog, which still Avas hovering nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry, [space 

This Dog had been through three months' 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof Avas plain that, since the day 
When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
The Dog had Avatched about the spot. 
Or by his master's side : 
How nourished here through such long time 
He knows, who gave that loA^e sublime ; 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate ! 



65 




THE PET-LAMB. 



A PASTORAL. 



The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 

I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " 

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 

A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. 




THE PET-LAMB. 



67 




The lamb, -while from her hand he thus his supper took, 
Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail with pleas- 
ure shook. 
'^ Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away : 
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her face: 
]f Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring. 
Thus, thought 1, to her lamb that little Maid might sing : 







"What ails thee, yountr One? what? Why pull so at 

thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, as green as grass can be ; 
Eest, little young One, rest ; what is't that aileth thee ? 



^"^m 







m-m^mmi 



68 



THE PET-LAMB. 



" What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is 
wanting to thy heart ? 

Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beau- 
tiful thou art : 

This grass is tender grass ; these flowers 
they have no peers; 

And that green corn all day is rustling in 
thy ears ! 

" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch 

thy woollen chain, 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms ! the 

like thou need'st not fear, MJiiH 

The rain and storm are things that 

scarcely can come here. 

" East, little young One, rest ; thou 

hast forgot the day 
When my father found thee first 

in places far away ; 
Many flocks were on the hills, but 

thou wert owned by none, 
And thy mother from thy side for- 

evermore was gone. 



And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it 

is and new. 

'^ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 

they are now. 
Then I'll yoke thee to ray cart like a pony 

in the plough ; 
My playmate tlioii shalt be ; and when the 

wind is cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 

be thy fold. 




" He took thee in his arms, and in pity 

brought thee home : 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither 

wouldst thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that 

did thee yean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could 

have been. 

" Thou know'st that twice a day I have 

brought thee in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever 

ran; 



"It will not, will not rest! — Poor creature, 
can it be 

That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work- 
ing so in thee ? 

Things that I know not of belike to thee are 
dear, 

And dreams of things which thou canst 
neither see nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there; 



THE PET-LAMB. 



69 




The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, 
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 

" Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky ; 
jSiight and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. 
Wliy bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again ! " 

— As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; 




And it seemed, as T retraced the ballad line by 

line. 
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it 

was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; 
" Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel 

must belong, 
For she looked with such a look, and she 

spake Avith such a tone, 
That I almost received her heart into my own." 



.■^Vr 







THE GREEN LINNET. 



Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, 
Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
Dost lead the revels of the May; 

And this is thy dominion. 




70 



THE GEEEy LINNET. 



n 



While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
IMake all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence, like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair ; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perched in ecstacies. 

Yet seeming still to hover; 
There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 




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My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves ; 
Then flits, and from the cottage- 
eaves 
Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with dis- 
dain 
The voiceless Form he chose to 
feign, 
While fluttering in the bushes. 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 




distant countries have I been, 

And yet I have not often seen 

A healthy man, a man full grown, 

Weep in the public roads, alone. 

But such a one, on English ground, 
And in the broad highway, I met ; 
Along the broad highway he came, 



His cheeks with tears were wet : 
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; 
And in his arras a Lamb he had. 

II. 

He saw me, and he turned aside. 

As if he wished himself to hide : 

And with his coat did then essay 

To wipe those briny tears away. 

T followed him, and said, " My friend, 

What ails you ? wherefore weep you so ?'^ 

— " Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 

He makes my tears to flow. 

To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 

He is the last of all my flock. 

III. 

When I was young, a single man. 
And after youthful follies ran. 





Though little given to care and thought, 
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; 
And other sheep frpm her I raised, 
As healthy sheep as you might seej 
And then I married, and was rich 
As I could wish to be ; 
Of sheep I numbered a full score, 
And every year increased my store. 
72 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 



73 



IV. 

Year after year my stock it grew j 

And from this one, this single ewe, 

Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 

As tine a flock as ever grazed ! 

Upon the Quantock hills they fed ; 

They throve, and we at home did thrive 

— This lusty Lamb, of all my store 

Is all that is alive ; 

And now I care not if we die, 

And perish all of poverty. 




Six Children, Sir! had I to feed; 

Hard labor in a time of need ! 

My pride was tamed, and in our grief 

I of the Parish asked relief. 

They said, I was a wealthy man ; 



74 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 




My sheep upon the uplands fed, 
And it was fit that thence I took 
Whereof to buy us bread. 

'Do this : how can we give to you,' 

They cried, '■ what to the poor is due ? ' 



I sold a sheep, as they had said, 
And bought my little children bread. 
And they were healthy with their food ; 
For me — it never did me good. 
A woeful time it was for me, 
To see the end of all my gains. 




THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 



75 



The pretty flock which I had 
reared 

With all mj care and pains, 

To see it melt like snow- 
away — 

Por me it was a woeful day. 

VII. 

Another still ! and still an- 
other ! 
A little lamb, and then its 

mother ! 
It was a vein that never 

stopped — 
Like blood-drops from my 

heart they dropped. 
Till thirty were not left alive, 
They dwindled, dwindled, 

one by one ; 
And I may say, that many a 

time 

I wished they all were gone 

Reckless of what might come 

at last 
Were but the bitter struggle 

past. 



I "was 



VIII. 

To wicked deeds 

inclined. 
And wicked fancies crossed 

my mind. 
And every man I chanced to 

see, 

I thought he knew some ill of me ; 
No peace, no comfort could I find, ' 
No ease, within doors or without • 
And, crazily and wearily 
I went my work about ; 
And oft was moved to flee from home. 
And hide my head where wild beasts 'roam. 




IX. 



Sir ! 'twas a precious flock to me, 
As dear as my own children be ; 
For daily with my growing store 
I loved my children more and more, 
Alas ! it was an evil time ; 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 




God cursed me in my sore distress ;. 
I prayed, yet. every day I thought 
I loved my children less, 
And every week, and every day, 
My flock it seemed to melt away. 



X. 



They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see I 
From ten to five, from five to three, 
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; — 
And then at last from three to two j, 
And, of my fifty, yesterday 
I had but only one : 
And here it lies upon my arm, 
Alas ! and I have none ; — 
To-day I fetched it from the rock ;, 
It is the last of all my flock." 




• ■«!••' Ji'-: '-'-'■"' '^r~^' '^-' <■.' : 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 




Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 
A little longer stay in sight ! 
" ' Much converse do I find in thee, 

I hi' Historian of my infancy ! 

'^^^^¥fiilllf''W "^^°^* ^^^^^' ^® ■ ^° "°* ^'^* depart ! 

^^^^m/§ijjj!j/^ Dead times revive in thee : 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 




Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
The time, when, in our childish plays, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly ! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 
I followed on from brake to bush ; 
But she, God love her ! feared to brush 
The dust from off its wings. 




77 




PETER BELL. 
A Tale. 

PROLOGUE. 

HERE'S something in a flying 

horse, 
There's something in a huge 

balloon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never 

float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
Shaped like the crescent-moon. 



And now I heme a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon : 

East through the clouds my Boat can sail ; 

But if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 




The woods, my Eriends, are round you 

roaring, 
Rocking and roaring like a sea ; 
The noise of danger's in your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me! 



Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 
Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her : 
Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull — 
We pry among them all ; have shot 
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
Covered from top to toe with scars ; 
Such company I like it not ! 




.A. / / //J ,lJyJ/^yy/!fy(/yi^L 



78 



PETER BELL. 



79 



The towns in Saturn are decayed, 
And melancholy Spectres throng them; 
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
Each other in the vast abyss. 
With joy I sail among them. 

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain. 
That little Earth of ours ? 

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth ; 
Whole ages if I here should roam. 
The world lor my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be ; 
I've left my heart at home. 



And see the town where I was born ! 
Around those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols : — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never ; — 
How tunefully the forests ring ! 
To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang for ever ! 

" Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 

" Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Within a living Boat to sit. 

And make no better use of it, — 

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon! 

" Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so faint a heart before ; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered yo\;r mortal ears ? 
— Such din shall trouble them no more. 



" These nether precincts do not lack 
Charms of their own ; — then come with mc 
I want a comrade, and for you 
There's nothing that I would not do ; 
Nought is there that you shall not see. 




M^i 



" Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
We'll sport amid the boreal morning ; 
Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
And now the stars adorning. 

'• I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray ; 
Fair is that land as evening skies, 
And cool, though in the depth it lies 
Of burning Africa. 



80 



PETEB BELL. 



" Qr we'll into the realm of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings ! 



" Or, if you thirst Avith hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore. 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore ! " 



" My little vagrant Form of light, 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part j 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces — then adieu ! 





TO THE CUCKOO. 



BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 




'Tliough babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

'Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

ISfo bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 



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82 



TO THE CUCKOO. 




The same whom in my school-boy days 
I listened to ; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
^Still longed for, never seen. 



And T can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place : 
That is lit home for Thee ! 





GOODY BLAKE ANT) HARRY GILL. 



A TRITE STORY. 



Oh ! what's the matter ? what's the matter ? 
What is't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
Good duffel gray, and flannel fine ; 
He has a blanket on his back, 
And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December, and in July, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 



The neighbors tell, and tell you truly. 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still I 

Young Harry was a lusty drover. 
And who so stout of limb as he ? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; 
His voice was like the voice of three. 



84 



GOODY BLAKE AND HABBY GILL. 




Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 
111 fed she was, and thinly clad; 
And any man who passed 

her door ' ^""TT 

rv' / 

Might see how poor a 1, '^j 

hilt she had. ^-4-' 




All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 
And then her three honrs' work at night, 
Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Remote from sheltered village-green, 
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 



By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
Two poor old Dames, as I have known, 
Will often live in one small cottage ; 
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
'TAvas well enough when summer came 

The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 

Then at her door the canty Dame 

Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 



But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
C) then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
Sad case it was. as 3'ou may think. 
For verv cold to go to bed ; 
And then for cold not sleep a wink. 




GOODY BLAKE AND HARBY GILL. 



85 



O joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout 
x\nd scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rotten bough about. 
Yet never had she, well or sick, 
As every man who knew her says, 
A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 
Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now, when the frost was past enduring. 
And made her poor old bones to ache. 
Could anything be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
And, now and then, it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her hre, or lelt her bed, 
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
And vowed that she should be detected - 
That he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm tire he'd go. 
And to the fields his road would take ; 
And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 
.Thus looking out did Harry stand : 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
— He hears a noise — he's all awake — 
Again ? — on tip-toe down the hill 
He softly creeps — 'tis Goody Blake ; 
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 

Eight glad was he when he beheld her : 
Stick after stick did Goody pull : 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 
Till she had filled her apron full. 
AYhen with her load she turned about, 
The by-way back again to take ; 



He started forward, with a shout, 
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her. 
And by the arm he held her fast, 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 
And cried, " I've caught you then at last ! " 
Then Goody, who had nothing said. 
Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
To God that is the judge of all. 







She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
"While Harry held her by the arm — 
•• God ! Avho art never out of hearing, 
() may he never more be warm ! " 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 
Young Harry heard what she had said : 
And icy cold he turned away. 



GOODY BLAKE AND HABRY GILL. 



He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill : 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he : 
Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the Sabbath he had three. 

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 
And blankets were about him pinned; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter ; 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 



And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
And all who see him say, 'tis plain, 
That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again. 

No word to any man he utters, 
A-bed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 
" Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
A-bed or up, by night or day, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 




ALICE FELL 




OR, POVERTY. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 

For threatening clouds the moon hud drowned; 

When, as we hurried on, my ear 

Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the Avind blew many ways, 
I heard the sound, — and more and morej 
It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 



At length I to the boy called out ; 
He stopped his horses at the word, 
But, neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked liis wliip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain ; 



But, hearing soon upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 

FortliAvith alighting on the ground, 

" Whence comes," said I, " this piteous moan ? " 

And there a little Girl I found, 

Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 



87 



ALICE FELL. 



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" My cloak ! " no other word she sj^ake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ? " — she sobbed 

"Look here!" 
I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
From any garden scare-crow dangled. 



There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
A miserable rag indeed ! 



" And whither are you going, child, 
To-night along these lonesome Avays ? " 
"To Durham," answered she, half wild' 
"Then come with me into the chaise." 

Insensible to all relief 
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 



" M.j child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
She checked herself in her distress. 
And said, "My name is Alice Fell ; 
I'm fatherless and motherless. 

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
Again, as if the thought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The chaise drove on; our journey's end 
Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
As if she had lost her only friend 
She wept, nor Avould be pacified. 




ALICE FELL. 



89 



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Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
And I gave money to the host, 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

"And let it be of duffel gray, 
As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 
Proud cTPature Avas she the next day, 
The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 



PART II. 

FOR OLDER CHILDREN. 




IMPROMPTU. 



The sun has long been set, 

The stars are out by twos and threes, 
The little birds are piping yet 

Among the bushes and trees ; 
There's a cuckoo, and one or two 

thrushes, 
And a far-off wind that rushes. 
And a sound of water that gushes, 



And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
Fills all the hollow of the sky. 
Who would " go parading " 
In London, " and masquerading," 
On such a night of June 
With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
And all these innocent blisses ? 
On such a night as this is ! 



93 



THERE WAS A BOY. 

There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 

Atid islands of Winander ! many a time, 

At evening, when the earliest stars began 

To move along the edges of the hills, 

Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake : 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 

That they might answer him. — And they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again, 

Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals. 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 

Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when there came a pause 

Of silence such as baffled his best skill : 

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

Has carried far into his heart the voice 

Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 

Would enter unawares into his mind 

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 

Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
Where he was born and bred : the church-yard hangs 
Upon a slope above the village school ; 
And through that church-yard when my way has led 
On summer evenings, I believe, that there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 

94 



TO A CHILD. 



96 




"SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE." 

vSo fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive. 
Would that the little Flowers were born to live, 
Conscious of half the pleasui-e which they give; 
That to this mountain-daisy's self were known 
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown 
On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 



TO A CHILD. 

WKITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 

Small service is true service while it lasts: 

Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! scorn not one; 

The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 



TO THE SAME PLOWEE. 



(celandine.) 



Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet : 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art, 

Thou must needs, I think, have had, 

Celandine ! and long ago, 

Praise of which I nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he. 
Whosoe'er the man might be, 
Who the first with pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 
Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
When the rising sun he painted, 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of winter's vanishing, 
And the children build their bowers. 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
All about with full-blown flowers. 
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
With the proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have I sighed to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure, 
Sighed to think, I read a book, 
Only read, perhaps, by me; 



Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright 'coronet and thee, 
And thy arch and wily ways. 
And thy store of other praise. 

Blithe of heart, from week to week 
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; 
While the patient primrose sits 
Like a beggar in the cold,. 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
When ye are all out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
By what charm of sight or smell. 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Laboring for her waxen cells. 
Fondly settle upon thee, 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side. 
By the season multiplied ? 

Thou art not beyond the moon. 
But a thing " beneath our shoon : "■ 
Let the bold discoverer tlirid 
In his bark the polar sea; 
Bear who will a pyramid ; 
Praise it is enough for me. 
If there be but three or four 
Who will love my little flower. 



96 



TO THE DAISY. 



In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake. 
And gladly Nature's love partake, 

Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train. 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing daunted. 
Nor grieved if thou be set at naught : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling ! 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The Poet's darling. 



If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or,, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 

Near the green holly. 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love ; some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds ; 
A Avisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 



97 



98 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 



And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing; 
Ah instinct call it, a blind sense ; . 
A happy, genial influence. 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 



Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret. 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite. 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 



With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art Avorthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes. 

Loose types of things through all degrees. 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game. 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. . 



A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over. 
The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself some faery bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star with glittering crest. 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Flower! for by that name at last. 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 



BY THE SIDE OF KYDAL MERE. 

The Linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 

Hints to the Thrush 'tis time for their repose ; 

The shrill-voiced Thrush is heedless, and again 

The monitor revives his own sweet strain; 

But both will soon be mastered, and the copse 

Be left as silent as the mountain-tops. 

Ere some commanding Star dismiss to rest 

The throngs of Rooks, that now, from twig or nest, 

(After a steady flight on home-bound wings, 

And a last game of mazy hoverings 

Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise 

Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 



TO A SKY-LARK. 



Up with me ! up with me into the clouds : 
Eor thy song, Lark, is strong ; 

Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
Singing, singing, 

With all the heavens about thee ringing, 
Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 




Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning : 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And. though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
To be such a traveller as I. 



99 



100 



THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 



Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
Joy and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 



Through prickly moors or dusty ways must 

wind; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 
As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
And hope for higher raptures, when life's 

day is done/ 



THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 



"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 

Exclaimed an angry Voice, 

" Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln Avith snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 

That, all bespattered with his foam. 

And dancing high and dancing low. 

Was living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. 



II. 



" Dost thou presume my course to block ? 

Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 

To which thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was t3^rannous and strong; • 

The patient Briar suffered long, 

Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past ; 

But, seeing no relief, at last. 

He ventured to reply. 



III. 



"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not; 

Why should Ave dwell in strife ? 

We who in this sequestered spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed — 

What pleasure through my veins you spread 

The summer long, from day to day. 

My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 

Nor was it common gratitude 

That did your cares repay. 



IV. 



" When spring came on with bud and bell. 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths to tell 

That gentle days were nigh ! 

And in the sultry summer hours, 

I sheltered you with leaves and floAvers ; 

And in my leaves, — now shed and gone. 

The linnet lodged, and for us tAvo 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 



101 



V. 



" But no"w proud thoughts are in your breast — 
AVhat grief is mine you see, 
\h ! would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be ! 



Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way. 
Would deck you many a winter day, 
A happy Eglantine ! " 



VI. 

What more he said I cannot tell. 
The Torrent down the rocky dell 
Came thundering loud and fast ; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
Those accents were his last. 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 



A PASTORAL. 



His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills ; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One winter's night, when through the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andrew hold : 

And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

Were seated round their blazing fire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told. 



" I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
As ever tempest beat ! 
Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
A Broom out of its feet. 



The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
Breathed gently from the warm south-west j 
When, in a voice sedate with age. 
This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
His ueiafhbor thus addressed : — 



III. 



' Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, 

Along this mountain's edge. 

The frost hath wrought both night and day^ 

Wedge driving after wedge. 

Look up ! and think, above your head 

What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 

Last night, I heard a crash — 'tis true. 

The splinters took anotlier road — 

I see them yonder — what a load 

For such a Thing as you ■ 



102 



THE OAK AND THE BBOOM. 



IV. 



< You are preparing as before 

To deck your slender shape ; 

And yet just three years back — no more 

You had a strange escape : 

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 

It thundered down, with fire and smoke, 

And hitherward pursued its way ; 

This ponderous block was caught by me, 

And o'er your head, as you may see, 

'Tis hanging to this day ! 



V. 



^ If breeze or bird to this rough steep 

Your kind's first seed did bear ; 

The breeze had better been asleep. 

The bird caught in a snare : 

For you and your green twigs decoy 

The little witless shepherd-boy 

To come and slumber in your bower ; 

And, trust me, on some sultry noon, 

Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon ! 

Will perish in one hour. 



VI. 



' From me this friendly warning take ' — 

The Broom began to doze, 

And thus to keep herself awake. 

Did gently interpose : 

^ My thanks for your discourse are due ; 

That more than what you say is true, 

I know, and I have known it long ; 

Frail is the bond by which we hold 

Our being, whether young or old, 

Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 

VII. 

■* Disasters, do the best we can. 
Will reach both great and small ; 



And he is oft the wisest man. 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to roam ? 

This spot is my paternal home, 

It is my pleasant heritage ; 

My father many a happy year. 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attained a good old age. 

VIII. 

' Even such as his may be my lot. 

What cause have I to haunt 

My heart with terrors ? Am I not 

In truth a favored plant ! 

On me such bounty Summer pours, 

That I am covered o'er with flowers ; 

And, when the Frost is in the sky, 

My branches are so fresh and gay 

That yoLi might look at me and say, 

This Plant can never die. 



IX. 



' The butterfly, all green and gold. 

To me hath often flown, 

Here in my blossoms to behold 

Wings lovely as his own. 

When grass is chill Avith rain or dew. 

Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe 

Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 

The love they to each other make, 

And the sweet joy which they partake. 

It is a joy to me.' 



"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light 
The Broom might have pursued 
Her speech, until the stars of night 
Their journey had renewed ; 
But ifi the branches of the Oak 
Two ravens now began to croak 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN. 



103 



Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
And to her own gi-een bower the breeze 
That instant brought two stripling bees 
To rest, or murmur there. 



XI. 



" One night, my Children I from the north 
There came a furious blast ; 



At break of day I ventured forth. 

And near the cliff I passed. 

The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 

And struck liim with a mighty stroke, 

And whirled, and whirled him far away 

And, in one hospitable cleft. 

The little careless Broom was left 

To live for many a day." 



SIMON LEE; 

THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 



In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry ; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee 

"When Echo bandied, round and round. 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days, he little cared 

Eor husbandry or tillage; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reeled, and was stone-blind. 

And still there's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices ; 

Eor when the chiming hounds are out. 

He dearly loves their voices ! 



But oh, the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see I 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty. 

His iNIaster's dead, — and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick ; 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Kests upon ankles swollen and thick ; 

His legs are thin and dry. 

One prop he has, and only one, 

His wife, an aged woman. 

Lives with him, near the waterfall, 

Upon the village Common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no lon2;er? 



104 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN. 



Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
Is stouter of the two. 
And, though you with your utmost skill 
From labour could not wean them, 
'Tis little, very little — all 
That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell. 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Eeader, I perceive 

How patiently you've waited, 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 

Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 

A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short, 

And you must kindly take it. 

It is no tale ; but, should you think. 

Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 



One summer day I chanced to see 
This old Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock tottered in his hand ; 
So vain was his etideavour. 
That at the root of the old tree 
He might have worked forever. 

" You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 

Give me your tool," to him I said ; 

And at the word right gladly he 

Received my proffered aid. 

I struck, and with a single blow 

The tangled root I severed, 

At which the poor old Man so long 

And vainly had endeavoured. 

The tears into his eyes were brought. 
And thanks and praises seemed to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thought 
They never would have done. 
— I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning ; 
Alas ! the gratitude of men 
Hath oftener left me mourning. 



THE DANISH BOY. 



A FKAGMENT. 



Between two sister moorland rills 

There is a spot that seems to lie 

Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 

And sacred to the sky. 

And in this smooth and open dell 

There is a tempest-stricken tree ; 

A corner-stone by lightning cut, 

The last stone of a lonely hut ; 

And in this dell you see 

A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 

The shadow of a Danish Boy. 



II. 



In clouds above, the lark is heard, 
But drops not here to earth for rest ; 
Within this lonesome nook the bird 
Did never build her nest. 
No beast, no bird hath here his home ; 
Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
Pass high above those fragrant bells 
To other flowers : — to other dells 
Their burthens do they bear ; 
The Danish Boy walks here alone, 
The lovely dell is all his own. 

III. 

A Spirit of noon-day is he ; 
Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; 
Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 
Nor herd-boy of the wood. 



A regal vest of fur he wears, 

In color like a raven's wing ; 

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; 

But m the storm 'tis fresh and blue 

As budding pines in spring ; 

His henilet has a vernal grace, 

Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 

IV. 

A harp is from his shoulder slung; 
Resting the harp upon his knee. 
To words of a forgotten tongue 
He suits its melody. 
Of flocks upon the neighboring hill 
He is the darling and the joy ; 
And often, when no cause appears, 
The mountain-ponies prick their ears, 
— They hear the Danish Boy, 
While in the dell he sings alone 
Beside the tree and corner-stone. 



V. 



There sits he ; in his face you spy 

No trace of a ferocious air, 

Nor ever was a cloudless sky 

So steady or so fair. 

The lovely Danish Boy is blest 

And happy in his flowery cove : 

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far ; 

And yet he warbles songs of war. 

That seem like songs of love. 

For calm and gentle is his mien ; 

Like a dead Boy he is serene. 



105 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 




NE morning (raw it was and wet — 
A foggy day in winter time) 
A Woman on the road I met, 
Not old, though something past her prime ; 
Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 
And like a Roman matron's was her mien 
and gait. 

The ancient spirit is not dead; 

Old times, thought I, are breathing there; 

Proud was I that my country bred 

Such strength, a dignity so fair : 

She begged an alms, like one in poor 

estate ; 
I looked at her again, nor did my pride 

abate. 



When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
" What is it," said I, " that you bear. 
Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
Protected from this cold damp air ? " 
She answered, soon as she the question heard, 
" A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing-bird." 

And, thus continuing, she said, 
" I had a Son, who many a day, 
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; 
In Denmark he was cast away : 
And I have travelled weary miles to see 
If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 



The bird and cage they both were his : 
'Twas my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 
He kept it : many voyages 
The singing-bird had gone with him ; 
When last he sailed, he left the bird behind ; 
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. 

106 



THE SOLITARY ItEAPER. 



107 



He to a fellow-lodger's care 
Had left it, to be watched and fed, 
And pipe its song in safety ; — there 
I found it when my Son was dead ; 
And now, God help me for my little wit ! 
I bear it with me, Sir; — he took so nuuih delight in it." 




THE SOLITARY REAPER. 



Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
listen ! for the Yale profound 
Is overflowing with tlie sound. 

Xo Nisjhtingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Bi^aking the silence of the seas 
Amoncr the farthest Hebrides. 



Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, inihappy, far-off things. 

And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up tlie hill. 
The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



THE COMPLAINT 

OF A FOKSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. ' 

[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he 
is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the sit- 
uation of the place will aflbrd it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to 
pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; un- 
less he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females 
are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, "Hearne's 
Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean." In the high northern latitudes, as the 
same writer informs us, when the northern lights vary their position in the air, they make 
a rustling and a crackling noises as alluded to in the following poem.] 



Before I see another day, 

Oh let my body die away ! 

In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 

The stars, they were among ray dreams ; 

In rustling conflict through the skies, 

I heard, I saw the flashes drive, 

And yet they are upon my eyes. 

And yet I am alive; 

Before I see another day. 

Oh let my body die away ! 



II. 



My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 

Yet is it dead, and I remain : 

All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 

And they are dead, and I will die. 

When I was well, I wished to live, 

'For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire 

But they to me no joy can give, 

]S"o pleasure now, and no desire. 

Then here contented will I lie! 

Alone, I cannot fear to die. 



III. 

Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 

Another day, a single one ! 

Too soon I yielded to despair ; 

Why did ye listen to my prayer ? 

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger ; 

And oh, how grievously I rue, 

That, afterwards, a little longer, 

My friends, I did not follow you ! 

For strong and without pain I lay. 

Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 



IV. 



My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
A woman who was not thy mother. 
When from my arms my Babe they took, 
On me how strangely did he look! 
Through his whole body something ran, 
A most strange working did I see; 
— As if he strove to be a man. 
That he might pull the sledge for me : 
And then he stretched his arms, how wild! 
Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 
108 



TO A HIGHLAND GIBL. 



lOd 



V. 



My little joy ! my little pride ! 

In two days more I must have died. 

Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 

I feel I must have died with thee. 

•O wind, that o'er my head art flying 

The way my friends their course did bend, 

1 should not feel the pain of dying, 

Could I with thee a message send ; 

Too soon, my friends, ye went away ; 

J'or I had many things to say. 

VI. 

Til follow you across the snow ; 

Ye travel heavily and slow ; 

In spite of all my wear}^ pain 

I'll look upon your tents again. 

— My fire is dead, and snowy white 

The water which beside it stood ; 

The wolf has come to me to-night, 

And he has stolen away my food. 

Forever left alone am I ; 

Then wherefore should I fear to die ? 









'T^'^^/^/ 

'^^^'^-^r-^/ 




VII. 

Young as I am, my course is run, 

I shall not see another sun ; 

I cannot lift my limbs to know 

If they have any life or no. 

My poor forsaken Child, if I 

For once could have thee close to me, 

With happy heart I then would die. 

And my last thought would happy be; 

But thou, dear Babe, art far away, 

Nor shall I see another day. 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(at INVEKSNAIDE, upon loch LOMOND.) 



"Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake; 
This little bay ; a quiet road 



That holds in shelter thy Abode — 
In truth together do ye seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep; 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart ; 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 



110 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 



Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

• With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Eipening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Eeniote from men. Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 



happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A Shepherd, though a Shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
Thy elder Brother I would be. 
Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

ISTow thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 

I feel this place was made for her ; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old. 

As fair before me shall behold 

As I do now, the cabin small. 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



THE EEVERIE OE POOR SUSAK 




T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped Avith her pail; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 



She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes ! 




lU 




THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 



The class of Beggara to which the Old Mau here described belongs, will probabl)' soon be extinct. 
It consisted of poor, and mostly old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated 
round in their ceighborhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different liouses, they 
regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions. 



I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
Who lead their horses down the steep rough 

road 
May thence remount at ease. The aged 

Man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth 

stone 
That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
All white with flour, the dole of village 

dames, 



He drew his scraps and fragments, one by 

one ; 
And scanned them with a fixed and serious 

look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile. 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
That, still attempting to prevent the 

Avaste, 
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little- 
showers 
12 



TITE OLD CUMBERLAND BEG GAB. 



113 



Fell on the ground ; and the small moun- 
tain birds, 

Not venturing yet to peck their destined 
meal, 

Approached within the length of half his 
staff. 

Him from my childhood have I known; 

and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now ; 
He travels on, a solitary ^Nlan, 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering Horseman throws not Avith 

a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the 

ground, 
But stops, — that he may safely lodge the 

coin 
Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him 

so, 
But still, when he has given his horse the 

rein. 
Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who 

tends 
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she 

sees 
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
And lifts the latch for him that he may 

pass. 
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'er- 

take 
The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus 

warned, 
The old man does not change his course, the 

boy 
Turns with less noisy wheels to the road- 
side, 
And passes gently by, without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 



He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
2Viey move along the ground ; and, evermore. 
Instead of common and habitual sight 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and 

dale. 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
Is all his prospect. Thus from day to day 
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground. 
He lilies his weary journey ; seeing still, 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some 

straw, 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one 

track. 
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have 

left 
Impressed on the white road, — in the same 

line, 
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! 
His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his 

feet 
Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 
In look and motion that the cottage curs. 
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths. 
And urchins newly breeched — all pass him 

by: 
Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves 

behind. 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And Avhile in that vast solitude to which 
The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the benignant law of 

Heaven 
Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 



114 



HABT-LEAP WELL. 



— Then let him pass, a blessing on his 

head! 
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the 

heath 
Beat his gray locks against his withered 

face. 
Eeverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up din. 
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the 

air. 
Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
Let him be free of mountain solitudes ; 



And have around him, whether heard or not, 
The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
Few are his pleasures ; if his eyes have 

now 
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth 
That not without some effort they behold 
The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
Rising or setting, let the light at least 
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
And let him, lohere and u^hen he will, sit 

down 
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
Of highway side, and with the little birds 
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, 

finally, 
As in the eye of Nature he has lived. 
So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 



HART-LEAP WELL. 



Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about 
five miles from Richmoucl in Yorkshire, and 
near the side of the road that leads from Rich- 
mond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a 
remarkable Chase, the memory of which is pre- 
served by the monuments spoken of in the 
second part of the following- Poem, which monu- 
ments do now exist as I have there described 
them. 

The Knight had ridden down from Wens- 
ley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud. 
And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
"Bring forth another horse!" he cried 
aloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal 

heard. 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray ; 



Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious 
day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's 

eyes; 
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they galloped made the echoes 

roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and 

all; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 



IIART-LEAr WELL. 



115 



Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 

kind, 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid 

them on 
^Yith suppliant gestures and upbraidings 

stern ; 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by 

one. 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain 

fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the 

race ? 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
— This chase it looks not like an earthly 

chase ; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain- 
side ; 

T will not stop to tell how far he fled, 

Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 

But now the Knight beholds him lying 
dead. 

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a 

thorn ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy ; 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his 

horn, 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter 

leaned, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious 

feat; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; 
And white with foam as if with cleaving 

sleet. 



Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched, 
His nostril touched a spring beneath a 

hill, 
And with the last deep groan his breath had 

fetched 
The waters of the spring were trembling 

still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
(Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, 

and west. 
And gazed and gazed upon that darling 

spot. 

And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter 

found 
Three several hoof -marks which the hunted 

Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till 

now 
Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 

brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
And a small arbor, made for rural joy, 
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's 

cot, 
A place of love for damsels that are coy. 

A cunning artist will I have to frame 
A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
And they who do make mention of the 

same, 
From tills day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap 

Well. 



116 



HABT-LEAP WELL 



And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises 

known, 
Another monument shall here be raised ; 
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn 

stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 

grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are 

long, 
I will come hither Avilh my P.aramoiir ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion with its arbour shall endure ; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of 
Ure ! " 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 

stone-dead. 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the 

spring. 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he 

had said ; 
The fame whereof through many a land did 

ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had 

steered, 
A cup of stone received the living well; 
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 

reared, 
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 

With trailing plants and trees were inter- 
twined, — 

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 



And thither, when the summer days were 

long. 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of 

time, 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
And there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade; 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a welh 

What this imported I could ill divine : 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop^ 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor 

head ; 
Half wasted the square mound of tawny 

green ; 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
"Here in old time the hand of man hath 

been." 

I looked upon the hill both far and near. 
More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not 

here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 



HART-LEAP WELL. 



117 



I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in shepherd's garb at- 
tired, 
Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
And what this place might be I then in- 
quired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story 
told 

Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
hearsed. 

"A jolly place," said he, " in time of old ! 

But something ails it now : the spot is 
curst. 

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen 

wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others 

elms — 
These were the bower; and here a mansion 

stood, 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

The arbour does its own condition tell ; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the 

stream ; 
But as to the great Lodge! you might as 

well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 

sheep, 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep. 
This water doth send forth a dolorous 

groan. 

Some say that here a murder has been done. 
And blood cries out for blood : but, for my 

part, 
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the 

sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 



What thoughts must through the creature's 

brain liave past ! 
Even from the topmost stone, upon the 

steep, 
Are but three bounds — and look. Sir, at 

this last — 
Oh Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to 

love this place, 
And come and make his death-bed near the 

well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wandered from his mother's 
side. 

In Ajiril here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols 

sing ; • [born 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
Not half a furlong from that self-same 

spring. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 

shade ; 
The sun on drearier hollow never shone; 
So will it be, as I have often said, 
Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are 

gone." 

"Gray -headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 
well; 

Small difference lies between thy creed and 
mine : 

This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 

His death was mourned by sympathy- 
divine. 



118 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BBOUOHAM CASTLE. 



The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
That is in the green leaves among the 

groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom he 

loves. 

The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, be- 
fore, 

This is no common waste, no common 
gloom ; 

But Nature, in due course of time, once 
more 

Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 



She leaves these objects to a slow 
decay. 

That what we are, and have been, may be 

known ; ■ 

But at the coming of the milder day, 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, , 
Taught both by what she shows, and what 

conceals ; 
Never to blend our pleasure or our 

pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that 

feels." 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BEOUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND 

HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS. 



High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel 

And Emont's murmur mingled with the 

Song. — 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent 

long : — 

■'^ From town to town, from tower to tower, 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past, 

The red rose is revived at last, 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming : 

Both roses flourish, red and white : 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. — 



Joy ' joy to both ! but most to her 
Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 
Behold her how She smiles to-day 
On this great throng, this bright array! 
Fair greeting doth she send to all 
From every corner of the hall ; 
Both chiefly from above the board 
Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
A Clifford to his own restored! 

They came with banner, spear, and shield 
And it was proved in Bosworth-field 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
St. George was for us, and the might 
Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 
We loudest in the faithful north : 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BBOUGHAM CASTLE. 



11» 



Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 
Our strong-abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
Though lonely, a deserted Tower ; 
Knight, squire,aud yeoman, page and groom 
We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream lier own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
Beside her little humble stream ; 
And she that keepeth watch and ward 
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
They both are happy at this hour. 
Though each is but a lonely Tower: — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side. 
This day, distinguished without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer — 
Him, and his Lady -mother dear ! 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born — 
Give her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that ore with slaugliter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
Who will take them from the light ? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where ? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks, 
To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
She is speechless, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 
Maid and ISIother undefiled, 
Save a Mother and her Child ! 



Now who is he that bounds with joy 
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy ? 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass. 
Light as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither came 
In secret, like a smothered flame ? 
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread! 
God loves the Child ; and God hath Avilled 
That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
The Lady's words, when forced away 
The last she to her Babe did say : 
'■ jNIy own, my own, thy fellow-guest 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly shepherd's life is best !' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from ^Mosedale's groves^ 
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves. 
And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
IMust vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear. 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
Hear it, good man, old in days ; 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 

For this young Bird that is distrest ; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And he was free to sport and play. 
When falcons were abroad for prey. 

A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's ear! 
I said, when evil men are strong. 
No life is good, no pleasure long, 
A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful through a weary time, 
That brought him up to manhood's prime, 

— Again he wanders forth at will, 
And tends a flock from hill to hill : 



120 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 



His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 

Such garb with such a noble mien . 

Among the shepherd grooms no mate 

Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 

Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 

JsTor yet for higher sympathy. 

To his side the fallow-deer 

•Came, and rested without fear ; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea. 

Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 

And both the undying fish that swim 

Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 

The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality ; 

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 

Moved to and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 

Upon the mountains visitant ; 

He hath kenned them taking wing : 

And into caves where Faeries sing 

He hath entered ; and been told 

By Voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

The face of thing that is to be ; 

And, if that men report him right, 

His tongue could whisper words of might. 

— Now another day is come, 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 

And hath buried deep his book ; 

Armor rusting in his halls 

On the blood of Clifford colls ; — 

'■ Quell the Scot ! ' exclaims the Lance — 

Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the Shield — 

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 



Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 

When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar. 

First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not 

know 
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart 

was framed : 
How he, long forced in humble walks to go, 
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and 

tamed. 

Love had he found in huts where poor men 

lie; 
His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
The silence that is in the starry sky, 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 

dead: 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage- 
hearth ; 

The Shepherd-lord was honored more and 
more; 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 

"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he 
bore. 



MICHAEL. 

A PASTOKAT. POEM. 



If from the public way you turn your steps, 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle; in such bold as- 
cent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to 

face. 
But, courage ! for around that boisterous 

brook 
The mountains have all opened out them- 
selves, 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen ; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 

and kites 
That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
Nor should I have made mention of this 

Dell 
But for one object which you might pass 

by, 
Might see and notice not. Beside the 

brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story — unenriched with strange events, 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved; — not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and 

hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 



And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency 

Of natural objects, led me on to feel 

For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upo.v the forest-side in Grasmere Yale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name ; 
An old jnan, stout of heart, and strong of 

limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds. 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes, 
When others heeded not, he heard the 

South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would 

say, 



121 



122 



MICHAEL. 



"The winds are now devising work for 

me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that 

drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
That came to him, and left him, on the 

heights. 
So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should sup- 
pose 
That the green valleys, and the streams and 

rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Melds, where with cheerful spirit he had 

breathed 
The common air; hills, which with vigorous 

step 
He had so often climbed; which had im- 
pressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
The certainty of honorable gain ; 
Those fields, those hills — what could they 

less? — had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in single- 
ness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty 

years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels 
she had 



Of antique form; this large, for spinning 

wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had 

rest 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's 

phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 

storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. AVhen day was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even 

then. 
Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 

there. 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed 

milk. 
Sat round the basket piled with oaten 

cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 

when the meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 

named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to 

card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's 
edge, 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 



MICHAEL. 



123 



With huge and black projection over- 
browed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 

lamp ; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
Which, going by from year to year, had 

found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 

hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when Luke had reached his eight- 
eenth year. 
There by the light of this old lamp they 

sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar 

work, 
Making the cottage through the silent 

hours^ 
Murmur as with the sound of summer 

flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbor- 
hood, 
And Avas a public symbol of the life 
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 

chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect, north and 

south. 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward to the village near the 

lake ; 
And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
Both old and young, was named The Evex- 
iNG Star, 



Thus living on through such a length of 

years, 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's 

heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood 

of all — 
Than that a child, more than all other 

gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 

thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him. 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For often- 
times 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stei-n unbending mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when 

he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 

stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him 

stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of 

shade. 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the 

sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 



124 



MICHAEL. 



The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it 

bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the 

shade, 
With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath 

the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the 
boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff. 
And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
And, to his ofiice prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 
Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
And for this cause not always, I believe, 
Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
Though navight was left undone which staff, 

or voice. 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could per- 
form. 



But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 

could stand 
Against the mountain blasts, and to the 

heights, 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 



Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved 

before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there 

came 
Feelings and emanations — things which 

were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born 

again ? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew 
up : 

And now, when he had reached his eight- 
eenth year, 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household 
lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there 

came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 

bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlooked- 
for claim. 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
That any old man ever could have lost. 
As soon as he had armed himself with 

strength 
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at 

once 
A portion of his patrimonial fields. 



MICHAEL. 



125 



Such was his first resolve; he thought 

again, 
And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said 

he. 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
'• I have been toiling more than seventy 

years, 
And in tlie open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of 

ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us ; and if he were not 

false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like 

this 
Had been no sorrow. 1 forgive him ; — but 
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us. Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall 

go, 
And with his kinsman's help and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
?Ie may return to us. If here he stay, 
Wh^t can be done ? Where every one is 

poor, 
What can be gained ? " 

At this the old Man paused, 



And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's llichard Bateman, thought she to 

herself. 
He was a parish-boy — at the church -door 
They made a gatheing for him, shillings, 

pence, 
And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors 

bought 
A basket, Avhich they filled with pedler's 

wares ; 
And, with his basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous 

rich, 
And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel 

floored 
With marble, which he sent from foreign 

lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of like 

sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man 

was glad, 
And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this 

scheme, 
These two days, has been meat and drink to 

me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger; — but this hope is a good 

hope. 

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 

best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him 

forth 
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 

— If he coxdd go, the Boy should go to- 

nisrht." 



126 



MICHAEL. 



Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 
went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for 

five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day 

long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- 
pare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two 

nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his 

sleep ; 
And when they rose at morning she could 

see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day 

at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by them- 
selves 
Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not 

go: 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
ISfone to remember — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund 

voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Kecovered heart. That evening her best 

fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house ap- 
peared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 



To which, requests were added, that forth- 
with 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or 

more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours 

round. 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man 

said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this 

word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of 

things 
Which, if at such short notice he should 

go, 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Kear the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's 

edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he 

walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he 

stopped, 
An(i thus the old Man spake to him : — 

"My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full 

heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 



MICHAEL. 



127 



When thou art from me, even if I should 
touch [thou 

On things thou canst not know of. After 

First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 
To nesv-born infants — thou didst sleep 

away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's 

tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Kever to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fire- 
side 
First uttering, without words, a natural 

tune ; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed month, 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke : among these 

hills, 
As well thou knowst, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 

his hand. 
And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need not 

speak. 
— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
A kind and a good Father: and herein 
I but repay a gift which I myself 
Recfeived at other's hands ; for, though now 

old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Kemember them who loved me in my youth, 



Both of them sleep together : here they 

lived. 
As all their Forefathers had done ; and 

when 
At length their time was come, they were 

not loth 
To give their bodies to the family mould. 
I wished that thou should'st live the life 

they lived : 
But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
And see so little gain from threescore 

years. 
These fields were burthened when they 

came to me ; 
Till I was forty j^ears of age, not more 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my 

"work. 
And till these three weeks past the land 

was free. 
— It looks as if it never could endure 
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which 

they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
" This was a work for us ; and now, my 

Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 

hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may 

live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 

part; 
I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to 

thee : 
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 



128 



MICHAEL. 



Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless 

thee. Boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beat- 
ing fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — 

yes — 
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound 

to me 
Only by links of love : when thou art gone. 
What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment; hither turn thy 

thoughts, 
And God will strengthen thee: amid all 

fear 
And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 

lived. 
Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee 

well — 
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt 

see 
A work which is not here : a covenant 
'Twill be between us ; but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
And bear thy memory with me to the 

grave." 

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke 

stooped down. 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the 

sight 
The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his 

heart 



He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 

wept ; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Hushed was that House in peace, or 

seeming peace, 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn 

the Boy 
Began his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed their 

doors, 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell 

prayers, 
That followed him till he was out of sight, 

A good report did from their Kinsman 

come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news. 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were 

throughout 
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

hearts. 
So, many months passed on: and once 

again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and 

now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. ' Meantime Luke 

began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 



THE HORN OF EGBEMONT CASTLE. 



129 



I have conversed with more than one who 

well 
llemembei' the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
■Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up to sun and 

cloud, 
And listened to the winds ; and, as before. 
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep. 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither 

went. 
And never lifted up a single stone. 



Ther 



re, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes 
he seen 



was 



Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to 

time. 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold 

wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at her death the 

estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evening 

Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through 

the ground 
On which it stood: great changes have been 

wrought 
In all the neighborhood : — yet the oak is 

left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll. 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 



Ere the Brothers through the gateway 
Issued forth with old and young, 
'To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed 
Which for ages there had hung. 
Horn it was which none could sound. 
No one upon living ground. 
Save He who came as rightful Heir 
To -Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. 

Heirs from times of earliest record 
Plad the House of Lucie born, 



Who of right had held the Lordship 

Claimed b}' proof upon the Horn : 

Each at the appointed liour 

Tried the Horn, — it owned his power ; 

He was acknowledged : and the blast 

Which good Sir Eustace sounded,was the last. 

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, 
And to Hubert thus said he, 
" What I speak this Horn shall witness 
For thy better memory. 



130 



THE HORN OF EGBEMONT CASTLE. 



Hear, then, and neglect me not ! 

At this time, and on this spot, 

The words are uttered from my heart. 

As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 

" On good service we are going 

Life to risk by sea and land. 

In which course if Christ our Saviour 

Do my sinful soul demand, 

Hither come thou back straightway, 

Hubert, if alive that day ; 

Keturn, and sound the Horn, that we 

May have a living House still left in thee ! " 

" Fear not," quickly answered Hubert ; 

"As I am thy Father's son, 

What thou askest, noble Brother, 

With God's favor shall be done." 

So were both right well content : 

Forth they from the Castle went. 

And at the head of their Array 

To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 

Side by side they fought (the Lucies 
Were a line for valor famed), 
And where'er their strokes alighted, 
There the Saracens were tamed. 
Whence, then, could it come — the thought — 
By what evil spirit brought ? 
Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's 
sake ? 

" Sir ! " the Ruffians said to Hubert, 
"Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 
Stricken by this ill-assurance. 
Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
" Take your earnings." — Oh ! that I 
Could have seen my Brother die ! 
It was a pang that vexed him then : 
And oft returned, again, and yet again. 



Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace \ 

ISTor of him were tidings heard ; 

Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 

Back again to England steered. 

To his Castle Hubert sped; 

Nothing has he now to dread. 

But silent and by stealth he came. 

And at an hour which nobody could name, 

None could tell if it were night-time, 

Night or day, at even or morn ; 

No one's eye had seen him enter, 

No one's ear had heard the Horn. 

But bold Hubert lives in glee : 

Months and years went smilingly ; 

With plenty was his table spread ; 

And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. 

Likewise he had sons and daughters ; 

And, as good men do, he sate 

At his board by these surrounded 

Flourishing in fair estate. 

And whilst thus in open day 

Once he sate, as old books say, 

A blast was uttered from the Horn, 

Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
He is come to claim his right : 
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains 
Hear the challenge with delight. 
Hubert ! though the blast be blown 
He is helpless and alone : 
Thou hast a dttngeon, speak the word ! 
And there he may be lodged, and thou be 
Lord. 

Speak !— astounded Hubert cannot ; 
And, if power to speak he had. 
All are daunted, all the household 
Smitten to the heart, and sad. 



CHABACTEB OF THE HAPPY WABRIOB. 



181 



'Tis Sir Eustace ; if it be 

Living man, it must be he ! 

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 

And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 

Long and long was he unheard of : 
To his Brother then he came, 
Made confession, asked forgiveness. 
Asked it by a brother's name. 
And by all the saints in heaven ; 
And of Eustace was forgiven : 



Then in a convent went to hide 

His melancholy head, and there he died. 

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
Had preserved from murderers' hands, 
And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
Lived with honor on his lands. 
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs ; 
And through ages, heirs of heirs, 
A long posterity renowned. 
Sounded the Horn which they alone could 
sound. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 



Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to 

be? 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when 

brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 

thought : 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always 

bright : 
Who. with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to 

learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not 

there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 



In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest 
dower ; 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 
bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good re- 
ceives : 

By objects, which might force the soul to 
abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 

More skillful in self-knowledge, even more 
pure, 

As tempted more : more able to endure 

As more exposed to suffering and distress; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who de- 
pends 
i Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 



132 



CHABACTEB OF THE HAPPY WARBIOE. 



Whence, in a state where men are tempted 

still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
— Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Eises by open means ; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire ; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the 

same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 

wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
Whom they must follow; on whose head 

must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at 

all: 
Whose powers shed round him in the com- 
mon strife, 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has 

joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the 

law 
In calmness made, and sees what he fore- 
saw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : 



He who, though thus endued as with a 

sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to 

love : — 
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
Or left unthought of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not. 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be 

won : 
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
Who, not content that former worth stand 

fast. 
Looks forward, persevering to the last 
From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the 

earth 
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must go to dust Avithout his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, 

draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's ap- 
plause : 
This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
Whom every Man in arms should wish to 

be. 



A SKATING SCENE. 



(the pkelude.) 



And in the frosty season, when the sun 
"Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twi- 
light gloom, 
I heeded not their summons : happy time 
It was indeed for all of us — for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled 

about. 
Proud and exulting like an untired hprse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with 

steel, 
We hissed along the polished ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 



Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the 

stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 

throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star 
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- 
ning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 



IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE. 



It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillit}^ ; 



The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 

Sea: 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
133 



134 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 



A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with 

me here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 



Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 



THREE YEAES SHE GREW. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower. 

Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 

This Child I to myself will take ; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
Nor shall she fail to see 



Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



PART III. 
NATURE FOR OLDER CHILDREN 

(PARTLY FROM THE EXCURSION AND THE PRELUDE.) 



ON LAKE ESTHWAITE. 



(the prelude.) 



One summer evening (led by her) I found 
A little boat tied to a willow tree 
Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of 

stealth 
And troubled pleasure, nor without the 

voice 
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on ; 
Leaving behind her still, on either side, 
Small circles glittering idly in the moon. 
Until they melted all into one track 
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who 

rows, 
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 
The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. 
She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily 
I dipped my oars into the silent lake. 
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
Went heaving through the water like a 

swan ; 
When, from behind that craggy steep till 

then 
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and 

huge, 



As if with voluntary power instinct, 
Upreared its head. I struck and struck 

again, 
And growing still in stature the grim shape 
Towered up between me and the stars, and 

still. 
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
And measured motion like a living thing, 
Strode after me. With trembling oars I 

turned. 
And through the silent water stole my way 
Back to the covert of the willow tree; 
There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — 
And through the meadows homeward went, 

in grave 
And serious mood ; but after I had seen 
That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense 
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my 

thoughts 
There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
Remained, no pleasant images of trees, 
Of sea or sky, no colors of green fields ; 
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live 
Like living men, moved slowly through the 

mind 
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 



137 



AFTER A PARTY. 



(the prelude.) 



'Mid a throng 
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons 

staid, 
A medley of all tempers, 1 had passed 
The night in dancing, gayety, and mirth. 
With din of instruments and shuffling feet. 
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, 
And unaimed prattle flying up and down ; 
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and 

there 
Slight shocks of young love-liking inter- 
spersed, 
Whose transient pleasure mounted to the 

head. 
And tingled through the veins. Ere we re- 
tired. 
The cock had crowed, and now the eastern 

sky 
Was kindling, not unseen, from humble 

copse 
And open field, through which the pathway 
wound. 



And homeward led my steps. Magnificent 
The morning rose, in memorable pomp. 
Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front. 
The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, 
The solid mountains shone, bright as the 

clouds. 
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean 

light ; 
And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn — 
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds. 
And laborers going forth to till the fields. 
Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to the 

brim 
My heart was full ; I made no vows, but 

vows 
Were then made for me ; bond unknown to 

me 
Was given, that I should be, else sinning 

greatly, 
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked 
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. 



YE MOTIONS OF DELIGHT. 



(the prelude.) 



Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides 
Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs. 
Whose subtle intercourse with breathing 

flowers. 
Feelingly watched, might teach Man's 

haughty race 
How without injury to take, to give 
Without offense ; ye who, as if to show 



The wondrous influence of power gently 

used. 
Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, 
And, with a touch, shift the stupendous 

clouds 
Through the whole compass of the sky; ye 

brooks, 
Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 



138 



THE LANG DALE PIKES. 



139 



By day, a quiet sound in silent night ; 

Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal 

forth 
In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, 
Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm ; 
And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
To interpose the covert of your shades, 



Even as a sleep, between the heart of man 
And outward troubles, between man himself, 
N"ot seldom, and his own uneasy heart: 
Oh, that I had a music and a voice 
Harmonious as your own, that I might 

tell 
What ye have done for me. 



THE LANGDALE PIKES. 

(the excuksion.) 



In genial mood. 
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
Fronting the window of that little cell, 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on two huge 

Peaks, 
That from some other vale peered into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, 

" if here 
It were your lot to dwell, would soon be- 
come 
Your prized companions. — Many are the 

notes 
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind 

draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and 

dashing shores ; 
And well those lofty brethren bear their 

part 
In the wild concert, — chiefly when the 

storm 
Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to 

flow, 
liike smoke, along the level of the blast. 
In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom 

fails ; 



And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo 

back 
The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's 

laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the 

clouds. 
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — 

touch. 
And have an answer — thither come, and 

shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
And idle spirits : — there the sun himself, 
At the calm close of summer's longest day, 
Rests his substantial orb ; — between those 

heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle. 
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue 

vault, 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — 

alone 
Here do I sit and watch." 



I HAVE SEEN A CUEIOUS CHILD. 



(the excursion.) 



I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely; and his countenance 

soon 
Brightened with joy; for from within were 

heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor ex- 
pressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 



Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 
— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to 
feel. 



A SUNRISE. 



(the excursion.) 



What soul was his, when, from the naked 

top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He 

looked — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds 

were touched, 
And in their silent faces could be read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 



All melted into him : they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live. 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no re- 
quest ; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him; it was blessedness and 
love ! 



UO 



IN THE WILDERNESS. 



141 



A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
Snch intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oitentimes possessed. 
O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
There littleness was not ; the least of things 
Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he 
saw. 



What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
Low thoughts had there no place ; yet Avas 

his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind. 
And whence they flowed ; and from them he 

acquired 
Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence 

he learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
Self-questioned where it did not under- 
stand, 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 



IN THE WILDERNESS. 



(the excursion.) 



How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
At tliy command, how awful ! Shall the 

'Soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these? — Be mute who will, 

who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd. 
Cannot forget thee here; where thou hast 

built. 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
i\Ie didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 
In such a temple as we now behold 



Reared for thy presence : therefore, I am 

bound 
To worship, here, and everywhere — as 

one 
Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to 

tread, 
From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
And from debasement rescued. — By thy 

grace 
The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless 

flowers. 



AIKEY-EOECE VALLEY. 



■ Not a breath of air 



Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. 

From the brook's margin, wide around, the 

trees 
Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook 

itself, 
Old as the hills that feed it from afar. 
Doth rather deepen than disturb the 

calm 
Where all things else are still and motionless. 
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance 



Escaped from boisterous winds that rage 

without. 
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt. 
But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the 

brow 
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes 
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs. 
Powerful almost as vocal harmony 
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his 

thoughts. 



A SUMMER EVENING. 



Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with fall- 
ing dews. 
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are 

none ; 
Look up a second time, and, one by one. 
You mark them twinkling out with silvery 

light, 
And wonder how they could elude the sight ! 
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
Warbled awhile with faint and fainter 

powers. 
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
Nor does the village Church-clock's iron 

tone 
The time's and season's influence disown ; 
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
In drowsy sequence — how unlike the sound 



That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
On fireside listeners, doubting what they 

hear ! 
The shepherd, bent on rising with the 

sun, 
Had closed his door before the day was. 

done. 
And now with thankful heart to bed doth 

creep. 
And joins his little children in their sleep. 
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane 

o'ershade. 
Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
The busy dor-hawk chases the Avhite moth 
With burring note, which Industry and 

Sloth 
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them. 

both. 



142 



A NIGHT-PIECE. 



148 



A stream is heard — I see it not, but know 
By its soft music whence the waters flow : 
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no 

more ; 
One boat there was, but it will touch the 

shore 



With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; * 
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the 

gay, 
Might give to serious thought a moment's 

sway. 
As a last token of man's toilsome day ! 



A NIGHT-PIECE. 



The sky is overcast 

With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
Checkering the ground — from rock, plant, 

tree, or tower. 
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
Bent earthwards; he looks up — the clouds 

are split 
Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 



There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel 

away. 
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree. 
But they are silent; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault. 
Built round by those white clouds, enormous 

clouds. 
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, 
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 



TO MY SISTER. 



It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than before, 
The redbreast sings from tlie tall larch 
That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air, 
Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare trees and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field. 

M}'- sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done. 
Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you; and, pray. 
Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We'll give to idleness. 

No joyless forms shall regulate 
Our living calendar : 
We from to-day, my friend, will date 
The opening of the year. 



Love, now a universal birth. 
From heart to heart is stealing. 
From earth to man from man to earth ; 
— It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us more 
Than fifty years of reason : 
Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make^ 
Which they shall long obey : 
We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above, 
We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be tuned to love. 

Then come, my sister ! come, I pray. 
With speed put on your woodland dress j 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We'll give to idleness. 



144 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 



I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its Avreaths ; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 



The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure . — 
But the least motion which they made, 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can. 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent. 
If such be Nature's holy plan. 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 



AN APRIL MORNING. 



It "was an April morning : fresh and clear 
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength. 
Ran with a young man's speed ; and yet the 

voice 
Of Avaters which the winter had supplied 
Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
The spirit of enjoyment and desire. 
And hopes and wishes, from all living things 
Went circling, like a multitiide of sounds. 
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on 
The steps of June ; as if their various hues 
AVere only hindrances that stood between 
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, 

prevailed 
Such an entire contentment in the air 



That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
With which it looked on this delightful day 
Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
At length I to a sudden turning came 
In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
The stream, so ardent in its course before. 
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that 

all 
Which I till then had heard, appeared the 

voice 
Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the 

lamb. 



145 



146 



EXPOSTULATION AND BEPLY. 



The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush 
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, 
Which, while I listened, seemed like the 

wild growth 
Or like some natural produce of the air. 
That could not cease to be. Green leaves 

were here ; 
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks — the 

birch, 
The yew, the holly, and the bright green 

thorn, 
"With hanging islands of resplendent furze ; 
And, on a summit, distant a short space, 
By any who should look beyond the dell, 
A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 



I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
" Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this 

wild nook. 
My Emma, I Avill dedicate to thee." 
Soon did the spot become my other 

home. 
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
And, of the shepherds who have seen me 

there, 
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps. 
Years after we are gone and in our graves. 
When they have cause to speak of this Avild 

place, 
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 



EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLY. 



'' Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone. 
And dream your time away ? 

Where are your books ? — that light be- 
queathed 
To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you ! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply. 



" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be. 
Against or with our will. 

Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things forever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must stiU be seeking ! 

— Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 

Conversing as I may,. 

I sit upon this old gray stone, 

And dream my time away." 



THE TABLES TURNED. 



AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 



Up! up! my Friend, aud quit your books ; 
Or surely you'll grow double. 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the liglit of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 



She has a world of ready wealth. 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous form of things : 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 
Close up those barren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 



A CONVERSATION. 



We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young. 
And Matthew seventy -two. 



We lay beneath a spreading oak 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke. 
And gurgled at our feet. 



147 



148 



THE FOUNTAIN. 



" Now, Matthew ! " said I, "let us matcli 
This water's pleasant tune 
With some old Border-song, or catch, 
That suits a summer's noon; 

Or of the church clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade, 
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 
And thus the dear old Man replied, 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

" No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears ; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
My heart is idly stirred, 
For the same sound is m my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

- Thus fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 
Than what it leaves behind. 

The blackbird amid leafy trees. 

The lark above the hill, 

Let loose their carols when they please, 

Are quiet when they will. 



With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 

But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid in earth. 

The household hearts that were his own ; 

It is the man of mirth. 

My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
My life has been approved. 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

"Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
The man who thus complains! 
I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains ; 

And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
"Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
And through the wood we went ; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 



We walked along, while bright and red 
Uj^rose the morning snn ; 
And Matthew stooped, he looked, and said, 
" The will of God be done ! " 

A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray ; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass, 
And by the steaming rills, 
We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

" Our work," said I, " was well begun : 
Then, from thy breast what thought. 
Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
So sad a sigh was brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop ; 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top. 
To me he made reply : 

" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which I have left 
Full thirt}' years behind. 

And just above 3*on slope of corn 
Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 

With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 



And, to the church yard come, stopped short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang ; — she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more, 
For so it seemed, than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

And, turning from her grave, I met. 
Beside the church yard yew, 
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white: 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight ! 

No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
She seemed as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea. 

There came from me a sigh of pain 
Wliich I conld ill confine ; 
I looked at her, and looked again : 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
Methinks, I see him stand. 
As at that moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 



149 



NUTTING. 



It seems a day 



(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my 

step 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 

quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off 

weeds, 
Which for that service had been husbanded, 
By exhortation of my frugal Dame — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, 

in truth, 
More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless 

rocks, 
Through beds of matted fern and tangled 

thickets, 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious 

sign 
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 
A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 
Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I 

played ; 
A temper known to those who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 



Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose 

leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 
And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
Forever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
And — with my cheek on one of those green 

stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady 

trees. 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of 

sheep — 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring 

sound. 
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to 

pay 

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent 

things. 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, 

with crash 
And merciless ravage : and the shady nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past ; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding 

sky, — 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 



150 



LINES, 

composed a few miles above tintekx abbey, ox revisiting the banks of the 

wye, during a tour. 

July 13, 1798. 



Five years have past; five summers, with 

the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
springs 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and 

connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when 1 again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- 
tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe 

fruits. 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
selves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 

lines 
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral 

farms, 
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 



These beauteous forms 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 



151 



152 



LINES. 



In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the 

woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half -extinguished 

thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint. 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
The picture of the mind revives again ; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I 

was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than 

one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature 

then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is 

past, 



And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raiptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would 

believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- 
times 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living aii'. 
And the blue sky, and in ihe mind of man: 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought^ 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am 

I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 

soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I 
catch 



LINES. 



153 



The language of my former heart, and read 
]\ly former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege 
Through all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues, 
Eash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or distiirb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blow against thee : and, in after years. 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 



Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! 

then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- 
chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then f oi-get 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say, 
With warmer love — oh! with far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

cliffs. 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to 

me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 

sake ! 



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